Where is my McSteamy?

I haven't been feeling well. Like for weeks and weeks now. I went to the doctor. I took antibiotics. I went back to the doctor. A note about my doctor: she talks to me like she thinks I'm crazy or I make things up. Like the really super-crazy people on Grey's Anatomy who do heart-stoppingly stupid things like chop off their own feet. It frustrates me every time I go there. She's Australian, though, and I understand her when she speaks. That's important in a doctor.

Let's get one thing straight now: I am intrigued by medicine and have had an assortment of fascinating medical conditions in the past, but when I say it feels like I have a UTI I'm not making stuff up. The doctor said on more than one occasion that I was fine, though, that there was nothing wrong, so home I went to wait til that urgent pain went away. I believed her a little, I guess.

So I waited. And waited. And waited... til Tuesday mid-morning when I couldn't even think clearly anymore. At which point I became one of the wacky patients in the emergency room -- one of those patients who waited so long they couldn't act, well, normal. Only this was not Grey's Anatomy. This was me at the public hospital in Lugano, Switzerland squirming and sputtering in Italian.

After three hours a very nice doctor explained that I was clearly, based on empirical scientific evidence, not crazy... but, then, as he was talking I just kept thinking, "Where is my McSteamy?"