Sunday, January 3, 2010

Rage, Rage

When Dr. Second Opinion locked me into the Fibromyalgia diagnosis, I was trapped. His official word was the heavy canvas blanket that started to smother me.

Even though I knew, at the very least, that it wasn’t the whole story, I didn’t have the energy to fight two specialists. Energy was a scarce, barely renewable resource back then, and hope had just been listed as an endangered species.

True, I gave up before the physical exam was over, but when I got home that night, having put some distance between myself and that scoundrel, I could clearly see how he had wronged me. As the healthy, able-minded expert in our duo, Dr. Second Opinion was obligated to get the input that he required to make an informed decision.

He stabbed his fingertips into more than twenty points on my body without much response. He needed my input to make his diagnosis, but I stopped talking after the first three or four points. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge the fact that I had stopped answering his questions.

What was wrong with these two doctors? Why was the first one an idiot who just wanted to get me out of his office? Why was the second one an asshole who was more concerned about his relationship with the first doctor than with the health of a young woman?

When I stopped answering questions and started asking them, I got angry.

My hatred for these two specialists was the green that grew on me like moss. And allowing myself to feel rage for my own situation opened the gate to feeling rage for the Leukemia that was killing my mom-in-law.

A wave of rage filled the hole I was living in, floating me for quite a while.

The anger triggered a physiological response in my body: adrenaline rushed through my blood stream and my heart pounded. This raging energy gave me new life; and the ability to face a threat standing tall. As old-fashioned as our fight-or-flight defense mechanism is, it certainly isn’t obsolete.

My new found attitude had consequences, for sure, but for a time I felt unstoppable.

Fibromyalgia? Fibro-go-fuck-yourself.


  1. Good for you. Your mental state is just as important as 'real' medicine.

    I have also been treated like an object of fun by a specialist, and it pissed me off beyond words. It also kept me from getting an important diagnosis on something that affected my health greatly. I was so pissed that I refused to see another neurologist for nearly five years. And when I finally did, he was the most considerate, thoughtful and caring doctor. You just have to find one that is kind and considerate and treats you like a person. That can be very difficult, for sure.

  2. Hey Writtenwyrdd, I agree. It's especially frustrating to be treated this way when you have very little energy available to advocate for yourself. Luckily, there are good doctors out there to be found :)