Harry went to the doctor's office yesterday afternoon to pick up a new prescription for his hypothyroidism and to find out when his MRI and ultrasound are scheduled. The doctor's assistant wasn't very helpful. She said he didn't need to talk to the doctor and that they'd give a call when the tests were scheduled. Um, OK. The doc made it seem imperative that it was done like yesterday, and the assistant made it sound like it was no big deal. Whatever. So now we wait.
The once-a-day pill thing is no big deal (I was hoping he wasn't going to be annoyed by it). As long as it works, Harry's cool with it. The doctor said his symptoms should relent in a few month's time, so he's good with that, too.
Yesterday, he actually thanked me for being so concerned for his well-being. I was speechless. Of course I'm worried. He's my husband, my best friend, and I love him. He knows that, but hearing the concern in my voice made him feel good, wanted, cared for. My poor husband. Hasn't anyone ever cared what happened to him? I find that so very sad.
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