Thanks, Dr. A

     I've tried to start this post at least four times over the past couple weeks. A letter came from my doctor's office a while ago, which generally isn't great news. But I definitely didn't expect to open it and read that my GP had died. It went on to explain that I'd need to sort out a new doctor with my insurance as soon as possible, and gave me a number to call with any questions. The fact that the letter was written on her letterhead added to the surrealness of the moment.

     Dr. A was my doctor starting in 2015. I'd been hurt for over a year at this point, and was frustrated as hell. I'd been treated like a drug seeker, a hysterical little girl- like less than a person at some of the clinics and hospitals I'd had to go to. After my first (incorrect) diagnosis and laparoscopic surgery, health care workers treated me as though it were somehow my fault the first diagnosis was wrong. 

     Going to Dr. A's office, I had little hope. That's why it shocked me to tears when she responded to my explanation of what was going on with my health.

"But what were those doctors doing? Why weren't they helping you?"

     She looked incredulous when I explained that since I didn't have a diagnosis, my former clinic refused to treat any of my symptoms. She talked to me with compassion and empathy, and treated me like a human being, which was so rare from health professionals at this point that I embarrassingly started crying. She ordered an MRI, and got me prescriptions to help some of my worse symptoms. She talked to me about my life and mental health.

     In the next couple years, Dr. A got me diagnosed and on the road to surgery.  I learned that she spent her vacations doing free heart surgeries in the Philippines, through a program she founded. But most impressively, she worked in medicine without becoming jaded. She treated her patients like human beings, and remembered to ask about our lives outside of our sometimes treacherous bodies.

     A couple months ago, the office told us she'd had a stroke and was taking some time off to recuperate. They had a couple of rotating substitute doctors filling in, and I suppose I just assumed she'd be back any day. I just wish I would have thanked her. 

     So thanks, Dr. A. For your compassion. For talking to me, rather than at me. For taking my pain seriously, and not brushing me off as some faker. For getting me diagnosed. For always asking what I was doing to distract myself from the sickness and pain. For the work did, from here to the Philippines, helping people. For never losing your empathy in a vocation that can so easily wear it down, I will always be thankful to you.

The beginning

 

   On the 18th, it will be exactly four years since this medical debacle started. Such a precise date feels really strange, especially considering I never had a dramatic injury or fall or anything. I just came home from work one night, and was hit with a deep, intense pain in my lower right pelvis. Kind of by my hip bone. Figuring it would go away once I curled up and rested, I wasn't too worried.

     However, after a few hours in bed with the cat, it was still steadily hurting me. Since the pain was on the appendix side of my body, and it was pretty late in the evening, Jax insisted we take a trip to the ER. After blood tests (I have the crappiest veins ever, so I got poked 4 times), urine tests, and being asked a million times about the possibility of pregnancy or STDs, they brought out the big guns.

"The contrast is going to make you feel like  you're peeing your pants. Don't worry- you won't really!"

The CT scan was quick, and the contrast really does make you feel like you're peeing all over the CT machine. The forewarning was much appreciated.

"I'm sorry, I have to ask you this: are you a virgin?"

"Uhhhhhh....no.."

"I'm sorry, it's just an invasive test, and we have to ask if you've had penetrative intercourse before."

     The joys of Catholic hospitals. To this day I wonder what exactly they would have done if I'd said I was a virgin. Would they just not give me the diagnostic test I needed to protect my oh so precious virtue?

     At any rate, the trans-vaginal ultrasound was not the most pleasant thing, but showed that the cysts on my ovaries were too small to be causing my pain. In fact, all the tests said I was pretty much fine. Except, you know, the crippling pain.

     Eventually they gave me some IV medication, and told me to return if I didn't improve, or got worse. Exhausted, and in my case covered in needle holes, Jax drive through McDonald's (we hadn't really eaten after I'd returned from work) and went home, trying not to wake our roommate as we stumbled in.

     Four years later, the differences in my life are striking. When all this started, I had a job, we had an apartment, a cat, were newly engaged, had savings, still danced or did Pilates whenever I could...

     Now I've lost the job, then the apartment. Our poor sweet kitty passed away. I'm in medical debt, and can barely walk straight, let alone dance. We did get married, which was lovely. That night- which feels like a lifetime ago now- I had no idea that after that day, I would be in constant pain from then on. That was the last day I had moments without pain. I kind of wish I'd appreciated it more. 

"Writing About It"

   

     A huge, full moon is shining on the window of the 12'X12' room I share with Jax- who is snoring gently about a foot away from me. In the other bedroom, my dad and step mom are asleep. Sprinkled elsewhere about the trailer, the two cats are sleeping, probably. 

     I'm the only one awake, and to be honest, I'm pretty salty about it. I didn't get much sleep last right for the same reason I'm awake right now: PAIN. All capitals absolutey necessary. It's been not yet two months post surgery, and while the pain is much improved from the first two weeks, when I begged Jax to kill me, it's still bad enough that I occasionally still need help getting out of bed and to the bathroom. And let me just tell you, there's nothing as confidence-boosting and sexy as having to ask your spouse (in sickness and in health, mofo!) to help you pee like you're a toddler. Super fun.

     Nearly four years ago now, before my body decided to just say "fuck it" and fall apart, I would have laughed at the idea that I'd ever let Jax help me with the most basic and embarrassing of tasks. I still had things like pride and independence. Now I've watched myself go from dancing en pointe, to using a walker. I can't afford to be too vain or too proud for help. I wear my ugly back brace, use the walker, the cane, let someone hold my arm to steady me, whatever I must.

     And apparently, after a million repetitions, I listen to my spouse and friends when they tell me (again and again) "You should really write about this, Tuesday!" Why would I want to write about the pain in the ass (sometimes literally) situations the past four years have put me through? It seems....potentially upsetting.

     At the same time, I don't have anything else going for me right now. I had to drop out half way through the semester to get back surgery. I spend much more time stuck in bed trying to distract myself from pain. Lost my job a couple years ago. Aside from piddling uselessly around the internet, or reading until my eyes burn, what else am I gonna do?

     Apparently, I'm gonna dredge up this whole messed up spine journey. Are you happy Jax?! Z?! (They probably actually are...they're supportive like that.)