Oh Cranberries

Woke up this morning feeling unpleasant. Suspect cystitis. Strange, right. Do I have too much sex? Not enough, I say.

Called Mirjana to request taking leave in the morning to visit the doctor. She was very understanding. Hopefully she'll be understanding enough to understand that to see my favourite and only responsible doctor of the medical centre my booking has been placed in queue for 11:00 am. If I requested the first available GP I could have made it to work ten minutes early, but that's ridiculous. I'd be just wasting thirty seconds of my life opening my mouth to tell him about my condition while he blurts out "here's-a-script-for-some-Ural-don't-worry-too-much-about-it-I-haven't-even-spoken-to-you-let-alone-examine-you-but-I'm-sure-you're-fine-kthnxbai" and shoves me out of the consultation room.

Seriously though, that's exactly what happens.

In the worse case I've had the life of my breasts squeezed out of them in a breast examination during which I was not instructed to remove any of my three sweaters. At the time I was an A-cup. I seriously doubted she could have been able to grab anything under all that wool.

So this is why I've been seeing nobody but Dr M. for the past two years, despite the fact that each visit comes with a hour-long (with booking) or three-hours-long (without booking) waiting room period. On top of that the man seems somewhat condescending because I must come off as a giant floozy having 90% of my consultations being about contraception and my sole concern being not breast cancer or thrombosis, but the couple of kilos I gained after my first COC. And then I'd say something totally stupid like "does it really help my skin? Cause look, LOOK, I have a break-out, right here. And here. It's like counting stars, except they're on my face".

Now he's going to diagnose me with cystitis. Bloody great.