Sometimes I am so obtuse about my own self. Sure, everyone is, but I’ve done bunches of work on myself (whatever the hell that means) and believe I’m fairly clued in about myself. And I am, except when I’m not. There seems to be a neverending supply of blind spots.
Recently I went to a follow up appointment with my new primary doctor. Everything went fine, but I noticed something curious about how he treats me and it took me awhile to figure it out because of how foreign it felt. He was kind. And gentle. And oddly hesitant about ordering run-of-the-mill bloodwork.
Back story: my favorite primary doctor retired about a decade ago. She was one of the few medical people that didn’t auto dismiss me. My retired doc listened and the thing that made her different was her willingness to be wrong. She acted on that willingness. When she told me she was retiring I was happy for her and sad for me.
Since her retirement I tried out different various primary docs, a PA, a nurse practioner, and none were willing to be wrong. I’d get shrugged shoulders. If I’d found a way to manage a symptom that was deemed good enough. But it wasn’t. My whole daily life was built around not doing things to exacerbate symptoms. Because of this my life became small and very curated, while I masked as normal because my body was a mystery. I told few ppl about being sick. It wasn’t worth the reactions.
Fast forward to my first appointment with new doc 6 months ago, who I told about previous medical encounters, the plethora of tests that showed nothing significant, and named my litany of various and seemingly disparate symptoms. I allowed my frustration to show. I talked about what medicines had worked well for more than a year even when I was doing very poorly.
This doctor was my last shot at trying to get help because I was exhausted by the dismissals and what at times felt like derision from the medical community. It takes an awful lot of energy and forced hope to see someone new, retell all the the things. To be ignored, dismissed, or thought to be a malingerer afterward was too disheartening to do any more if this guy blew me off, too.
I left that appointment with a tentative diagnosis and a script for the one thing that had been working and now I’d be able to take daily, consistently. Honestly, I don’t care if the diagnosis stays tentative because I have treatments that work. I have big parts of my life back that I thought I never would. I’ve had to give up some things, but that’s from covid ravaging what was already broken. Can’t have everything in this body, but I’m better with some symptoms than I have been in many years.
So, back to realizing my recent blindspot. When I left my new doc follow up appointment a week ago I said to my husband, in a surprised voice, “he treated me like I had medical trauma.” Husband said, “yeah!” in a tone that implied it was ridiculous. I was about to agree with him when my brain clicked and I thought “oh”. And just like that I knew, as well as I know my name, that the doc was correct in treating me that way.
I was simultaneously gobsmacked and disappointed in myself for not having seen it. I was relaying this new information to a friend of mine in terms of “curve balls and realizations”. When I said something about “everyone else had medical trauma. I had bad luck. Or something. Gawds. lol” they had the absolute nerve to respond, “Because I’m sure most patients prepare their past history as if they’re doing a TEDtalk.”
~zing~
I cracked up, loudly. Then I responded in the only way one does when they’ve spent bunches of time building an intimate friendship: “Fuck off”
Medical trauma. I have it. Maybe, with more time, it won’t have me.
LEAN IN TO JOY with BONEWEAVER 