A charming phone call

The just rang. I looked at the little caller ID window and saw “Aunt Agony” and called out to Dad to answer the phone because I really wasn’t in the mood to talk to her. He answered and shortly after came into my room, proffering the phone in my direction. I sighed and said hello.

“Hello darling, how are you?”
“Terrible.” This was mistake number one.
“What’s wrong?”
“My legs are fucked.” Second mistake, which I tried to rectify by saying “I have a CT scan on Friday so hopefully that brings some answers.” I was hoping dropping the CT in would show her there was some level of mystery and seriousness. I don’t think it worked too well…

“It’s because you don’t move them enough.”
“Nooo… I move plenty and it makes no difference.” And it’s true. I do exercises and it makes no difference. If anything, I think I deserve an award for actually trying to exercise in pain rather than lying back and whining about it!
“Well it could be growing pains.”
“Ummm… I’m 23.” Besides, many doctors believe the elusive umbrella-termed growing pains to be early manifestations of fibromyalgia (as in my case) or other musculoskeletal conditions like arthritis etc.
“So? You have one last shot going on at the moment.”
“I don’t think so. This isn’t growing pains. Anyway we’ll see what happens on Friday and what the doctors say, hopefully can shed some light on all this.” I was going to mention the neurologist appointment too, because I figure that that, in combination with a CT, might appeal to her sense of basic empathy, but I decided against it because I just couldn't be arsed arguing with her any further.

I interrupted with “Anyway, what can I do for you?” in attempt to divert the conversation to a place were I wouldn’t be likely to tell her what I thought of her or her unwarranted and ultimately useless diagnoses and recommendations.

As the conversation wound up, she drove in the last nail with “Think positive thoughts, darling.”
“I do think positive thoughts, Agony, it doesn’t make much difference. The pain doesn’t change with my mood.” She chose not to respond, which was good because it would have lead into a whole other area that I really don’t want to discuss with her.

At the end, she told me she loves me, and we said our goodbyes. What I want to know is where the fuck do concerned relatives get their medical degrees/training/experience? Are these institutions of higher learning open to all, or only aunts and other assorted familial hangers-on?