So there I was, barely held together with anger, on the verge of depression, in pain and exhausted. The pills the doctor had prescribed made me numb. Literally, the top two inches of my skin was desensitized by the drugs.
It was hard to advocate for myself in that state.
But I knew without a doubt that something undiscovered was happening in my body, and it was clear that nobody was willing to push for more tests after I was banished to Fibromyalgia Town.
I was getting worse, though. Waking up in the morning was depressing. The sleeping pills I took kept me asleep, but didn’t help me get the rest I needed to feel restored. I struggled to start each day when I felt like the previous day hadn’t ended. Some days I was too tired to get out of bed.
Those days pushed me to advocate for my health. I couldn’t accept that I would just get worse and worse and worse until who knows what. Until I became disabled permanently? Until I completely lost my mind?
No. I had to do something. So I went to my family doctor and pleaded with her. Because I was convinced at the time that I had MS, I asked her to send me for an MRI.
She told me, her voice full of conviction, that I didn’t have MS. She booked an MRI to humour me. I also asked her to send me for a sleep study. I figured something was wrong there. My doctor said the study would not confirm or dispel the Fibromyalgia diagnosis, but I didn’t care, I wanted to get some sleep.
Despite my doctor’s convincing tone, I thought the MRI would show MS. I was wrong.
However, it turned out that my demand for more tests would lead us to the right diagnosis in quite a roundabout way.