Trousers of flame

The only symptom I've ever been able to accurately describe to a medical professional is the feeling of flames licking my ankles. Everything else that happens when I'm sitting on the deli paper is a complete lie (thus the "pants on fire"). There are the obvious lies, like "Do I smoke? I'm not sure what that is?" And then there is the weird combination of my need to please the doctor, prove that I was sick enough to come see her, with my total lack of attention to my physical self. If you asked me right this very minute how I'm feeling, the answer would be, "um..okay I guess?" When they start in with the questions about whether I'm more or less tired than usual, whether I've had a runny nose or a headache, whether my left side hurts, whether my shoulder hurts more during a rainstorm, I'm totally lost. So I start making shit up, and agreeing with everything the doctor says. Then I get paranoid that she'll know I'm lying and I realize that the questions are tricks designed to catch me, so I start denying all symptoms and edging toward the door, holding my paper dress closed.

Why can't I just be honest? I want a definitive answer, a solid diagnosis, and rationally, I know that the baloney sandwiches I'm feeding the doctor don't serve that end. I'm afraid that if I admit that I don't have the slightest idea when my glands were first swollen, I'll be thrown out of the office, or at the very least, that the doctor will question why I don't notice how I personally am feeling. Maybe it's a leftover good student thing. I want to give the correct responses and get a gold star.

I suppose it's good that I so rarely go to the doctor - someday my fibs are going to lead me to be diagnosed with scurvy or leprosy or something ("I'm not sure when my arms fell off. I definitely had them last week, because I was shooting hoops.")