After talking with friends and thinking seriously about my anger, I think I know why I haven’t fully let it go.
True, it doesn’t affect me like it used to, meaning I don’t physically feel the anger even when I spend so much time reliving the memories that I can taste the blood in my mouth as though I was biting my cheek hard enough to stifle an urge to lash out.
But as Helen pointed out, the lack of a physiological reaction to the anger doesn’t mean I’ve let it go. Somewhere in my cells, I'm housing anger toward Dr. HC and Dr. Second Opinion because , at the very least, their negligible diagnosis made it incredibly difficult for me to get the proper diagnosis, which put my life at risk.
This week, I was listening to a radio interview with Dan Ariely, the author of Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions. Ariely talked about an experiment in which one guy overpaid for an item with two different groups of people: one control group, and one group of people that were purposely annoyed by the guy right before he overpaid. (The guy took a call in the middle of the interaction and rudely made the people wait without acknowledging it). The first group gave him back the extra money most of the time; the second group kept the money most of the time.
Ariely said that people didn’t keep the money because they were dishonest, but because they were trying to restore some kind of karma. In other words, the guy who treated them badly didn’t deserve the break they would have given him by fixing his mistake (paying too much).
What he said resonated with me. Big time.
I’ll admit it here and now: I am a karma crusader. If I see a wrong, I think it’s my job to right it – especially if I feel someone is being treated unfairly. My style is a bit different than that of the people in the experiment. I wouldn’t have kept his money, because I don’t think that’s right and I consciously make decisions on an hourly basis to stay in line with my morals; but after he hung up the phone I would have made him wait a bit longer than he made me wait.
So yes, I spend too much time trying to restore balance and justice into the most insignificant events. Why? If I don’t, I hold on to the anger of being unfairly treated.
Before I heard this interview, I had just realised that I’m worried letting go of my anger will give the two specialists who messed up a free pass, and they will never have to answer for their actions. My first thought to resolve it, then, was to find a way to file a formal complaint against them. Maybe it would stop it from happening to others.
Thanks to Ariely, I think there is another solution. In most cases, I will fold up my cape and let karma figure things out without my help.
(Because Dr. HC may misdiagnose more people, I think I have to do more, but Dr. Second Opinion was just a jerk, as far as I'm concerned, so he will fall into the 'most cases' category)
Folding the cape means giving people a break for no reason at all, and especially when they don’t seem to deserve it. If I can dole out at least one break a day, I think I can change my life. And if you do it with me, we might be able to change the world.
Showing posts with label Dr. Second Opinion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dr. Second Opinion. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Portable Fences
I’m finding it hard to write about anger.
I knew how to be angry, how to use it to keep going, and even how to direct it toward threats; but I didn’t sit down one day after being misdiagnosed and decide to get angry for all the benefits.
Anger was a reaction to a series of events that left me feeling almost hopeless. It’s an emotion that was hard for me to control. I let it consume me and affect many aspects of my life.
Somewhere between anger and depression, there was a great deal of self pity. Even though it was always tempered by the fact that my illness was not life-threatening, and I was learning too much about life-threatening illnesses to ignore the blessing, my pity and anger brought me to hurt people on occasion.
This is why it’s hard to write about. I feel awful for hurting people and embarrassed that I acted so disgusting some days.
I didn’t physically lash out. In some cases I was judgemental, in others plain mean, and most of the time my lack of interaction either directly or indirectly hurt friends and family. I carried a portable electric fence in my pocket. When I was angry, people knew.
To those that I hurt, I am sorry. I hope this journal gives you some insight into my actions, and I hope that you’ll give me a chance to connect with you if you haven’t already.
Carrying anger has been harmful. At the time, I didn’t know how to feel it only when it was useful and then let it go.
I’m not sure if I’m good at letting it go these days either. I’m still angry with Dr. Second Opinion and the other doctors who made me feel stupid and useless. But I can feel the anger without feeling the physical effects, like a heavy heartbeat and tense muscles and headaches.
Is that letting go?
I knew how to be angry, how to use it to keep going, and even how to direct it toward threats; but I didn’t sit down one day after being misdiagnosed and decide to get angry for all the benefits.
Anger was a reaction to a series of events that left me feeling almost hopeless. It’s an emotion that was hard for me to control. I let it consume me and affect many aspects of my life.
Somewhere between anger and depression, there was a great deal of self pity. Even though it was always tempered by the fact that my illness was not life-threatening, and I was learning too much about life-threatening illnesses to ignore the blessing, my pity and anger brought me to hurt people on occasion.
This is why it’s hard to write about. I feel awful for hurting people and embarrassed that I acted so disgusting some days.
I didn’t physically lash out. In some cases I was judgemental, in others plain mean, and most of the time my lack of interaction either directly or indirectly hurt friends and family. I carried a portable electric fence in my pocket. When I was angry, people knew.
To those that I hurt, I am sorry. I hope this journal gives you some insight into my actions, and I hope that you’ll give me a chance to connect with you if you haven’t already.
Carrying anger has been harmful. At the time, I didn’t know how to feel it only when it was useful and then let it go.
I’m not sure if I’m good at letting it go these days either. I’m still angry with Dr. Second Opinion and the other doctors who made me feel stupid and useless. But I can feel the anger without feeling the physical effects, like a heavy heartbeat and tense muscles and headaches.
Is that letting go?
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.
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.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Second Opinion
Have you ever taken tab-top drapery, rod and all, and stood the whole contraption on its end? The material zips to the floor and it turns into a rod with nothing to hold up.
It was apparent from the beginning of my appointment with Dr. Second Opinion that he wasn’t interested in giving a second opinion at all. He thought I was wasting his time. He fully respected Dr. HC and his ability to diagnose Fibromyalgia. Another patient might second guess him one day.
I was worried when the speech he gave from behind his desk inferred that he held those beliefs, but I had not yet given up hope, because there was still the matter of an exam.
By this time I knew the pressure points off by heart. I was ready to shout out yeses and nos. I wanted to tell him that it hurt everywhere, not just at those points.
And then, as though he had asked Dr HC how to administer the test, he pressed as hard as Dr HC did. In that moment I was devastated. The power left my lungs in one relinquishing exhale, flattening my voice.
There was no reason to tell him anything because he was not listening. So he went about poking me like I was a fucking faulty doorbell and I stayed silent.
My lack of participation in the test didn’t dissuade him from announcing his confirmation of Dr. HC’s diagnosis. Because he blatantly ignored me and automatically took the other specialist’s word as if it were a message from the cosmos itself, Dr. Second Opinion went from pastor to perpetrator in less than twenty minutes.
I took a chance asking for a second opinion and I lost. Now that two specialists had diagnosed me with Fibromyalgia, nobody would dare dispute it. Not even me. In public.
This moment changed me.
The people who could help me could not hear me; and my body was speaking to me in a foreign language, one even more incomprehensible than the words that didn’t make sense anymore.
Under the thumb of Dr. Second Opinion, I became lost.
It was apparent from the beginning of my appointment with Dr. Second Opinion that he wasn’t interested in giving a second opinion at all. He thought I was wasting his time. He fully respected Dr. HC and his ability to diagnose Fibromyalgia. Another patient might second guess him one day.
I was worried when the speech he gave from behind his desk inferred that he held those beliefs, but I had not yet given up hope, because there was still the matter of an exam.
By this time I knew the pressure points off by heart. I was ready to shout out yeses and nos. I wanted to tell him that it hurt everywhere, not just at those points.
And then, as though he had asked Dr HC how to administer the test, he pressed as hard as Dr HC did. In that moment I was devastated. The power left my lungs in one relinquishing exhale, flattening my voice.
There was no reason to tell him anything because he was not listening. So he went about poking me like I was a fucking faulty doorbell and I stayed silent.
My lack of participation in the test didn’t dissuade him from announcing his confirmation of Dr. HC’s diagnosis. Because he blatantly ignored me and automatically took the other specialist’s word as if it were a message from the cosmos itself, Dr. Second Opinion went from pastor to perpetrator in less than twenty minutes.
I took a chance asking for a second opinion and I lost. Now that two specialists had diagnosed me with Fibromyalgia, nobody would dare dispute it. Not even me. In public.
This moment changed me.
The people who could help me could not hear me; and my body was speaking to me in a foreign language, one even more incomprehensible than the words that didn’t make sense anymore.
Under the thumb of Dr. Second Opinion, I became lost.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Splinter of Hope
As I waited to find out what Dr. Second Opinion would say, I spun my hopes into had-to-bes.
When it came to silly issues like disputing a Fibromyalgia diagnosis, hopes weren’t real enough for me. They were flighty, unverifiable and worthy of pity. But when it came to serious issues like my mom-in-law’s struggle to survive Leukemia, hope was not only okay, it was required.
Eventually I did find hope in my own situation, but waiting for validation during the six months after my appointment with Dr. HC, I couldn’t afford another intangible in my world of unsubstantiated claims.
So hopes became facts. I hoped that Dr. HC was wrong and I searched for proof. According to the web, he had pressed on my muscles too hard, so the test had to be incorrect.
I wished to know what was happening to my body. According to the web, the symptoms had to mean MS.
Even my mind, which was not working at full capacity, was capable of skewing the facts to create a world I could live with. Not that I thought MS would be the ultimate outcome. But it would be a solid diagnosis with real treatments.
As I waited I was getting worse. I couldn’t type all day at work without wearing arm braces. Honestly, they didn’t help much, but I figured it was better than nothing.
I had a headache all the time. All the time. I went to bed with a headache and I woke up with one, and there was no relief in between. Often the pain would graduate from the normal low grade ache to a pounding, all-encompassing mess.
Sleeping offered no real rest. I slept at least eight hours a night, but it wasn’t restoring my energy. Waking up most days was depressing. I was still tired, and it felt like my body had been struggling overnight. Some mornings I felt like I had just run a marathon.
The fact that sleep didn't restore me made going to bed pointless, but I did it. And getting up exhausted was tiring, but I did it. There was nothing else to do.
I was terrified to find out what was really wrong with my body and at the same time, I was scared to never know. In an effort to keep fear from collapsing me, I had to find hope somewhere.
Dr. Second Opinion became my pastor, even though I hadn’t met him yet. All of my faith was invested in a true diagnosis, and he was going to guide me there. Not a wish, a fact. Believe it and it is true.
In this way, hope became a thin metal rod that slid through my tab-top spine, holding me straight and facing forward.
When it came to silly issues like disputing a Fibromyalgia diagnosis, hopes weren’t real enough for me. They were flighty, unverifiable and worthy of pity. But when it came to serious issues like my mom-in-law’s struggle to survive Leukemia, hope was not only okay, it was required.
Eventually I did find hope in my own situation, but waiting for validation during the six months after my appointment with Dr. HC, I couldn’t afford another intangible in my world of unsubstantiated claims.
So hopes became facts. I hoped that Dr. HC was wrong and I searched for proof. According to the web, he had pressed on my muscles too hard, so the test had to be incorrect.
I wished to know what was happening to my body. According to the web, the symptoms had to mean MS.
Even my mind, which was not working at full capacity, was capable of skewing the facts to create a world I could live with. Not that I thought MS would be the ultimate outcome. But it would be a solid diagnosis with real treatments.
As I waited I was getting worse. I couldn’t type all day at work without wearing arm braces. Honestly, they didn’t help much, but I figured it was better than nothing.
I had a headache all the time. All the time. I went to bed with a headache and I woke up with one, and there was no relief in between. Often the pain would graduate from the normal low grade ache to a pounding, all-encompassing mess.
Sleeping offered no real rest. I slept at least eight hours a night, but it wasn’t restoring my energy. Waking up most days was depressing. I was still tired, and it felt like my body had been struggling overnight. Some mornings I felt like I had just run a marathon.
The fact that sleep didn't restore me made going to bed pointless, but I did it. And getting up exhausted was tiring, but I did it. There was nothing else to do.
I was terrified to find out what was really wrong with my body and at the same time, I was scared to never know. In an effort to keep fear from collapsing me, I had to find hope somewhere.
Dr. Second Opinion became my pastor, even though I hadn’t met him yet. All of my faith was invested in a true diagnosis, and he was going to guide me there. Not a wish, a fact. Believe it and it is true.
In this way, hope became a thin metal rod that slid through my tab-top spine, holding me straight and facing forward.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Dr. Firefox
More symptoms started to pile up after my visit with Dr. HC. Hearing the news that I viciously disagreed with the diagnosis, my body rebelled.
I’m not going to bore you with details, because they are boring. Honestly it wouldn’t be interesting if I shared the long list of problems that haunted me back then. Let’s leave it at this for now: I struggled most with what I called the brain symptoms.
I asked my husband if he wanted dinner for tacos. I started to develop habits that could be mistaken as OCD tendencies when I misplaced my short-term memory. Did I turn off the stove? Check. Are the burners off? Yup. Did I remember to check the stove? Okay, but did I lock the door? Things got worse week after week, but it started with annoying stuff like that.
Stuff that would madden the most patient person. Patience is not exactly my enemy, but we don’t get along. Six months before my appointment with Dr. Second Opinion I was getting restless, because I knew that I had to be undiagnosed before I would have a shot at getting a proper diagnosis. I didn’t want to show up without an alternative theory. I was taught to bring up a problem right before presenting a solution. Hey, it usually makes sense.
I tried to diagnose myself with a little help from Dr. Firefox. Those damned articles that I mentioned in my post ‘Duh.’ were filled with the self-esteem boosting message that I know my body better than anyone. Yes, I do, but that’s not the whole story. I may know what I’ve been through and what vodka does to my sanity and what type of weather triggers migraines, but I don’t know anatomy worth a shit.
Going online for a diagnosis was a big mistake. My family doctor discouraged me from this. If she explained why, I wasn’t listening, but I know why it didn’t work for me.
We think the Internet is omniscient. If it’s not available on a browser, it doesn’t exist. When I was searching for answers, I forgot about the dusty texts in the back rooms and basements of libraries around the world. I forgot about books, period. I ignored the fact that certain medical journals are not available to everyone online. The ideas that I formed about my body were based on partial information.
After researching for hours on legit sites, I thought I had MS. It was my reaction to heat that convinced me. When I would take a shower with my husband, he shivered as I felt rubbery and tired. The showers were never hot enough to fog the mirror. Even a slight rise in temperature made me feel exhausted, and I was especially sensitive to humidity.
Heat makes pain worse for some Fibromyalgia sufferers, not fatigue. When I typed my most prevalent symptoms into the trusty search engine, the only disease that came up as a match was MS. I didn’t complicate things by noticing that many online medical queries ended with MS. In the end, though, the best proof that Internet diagnosis doesn’t work is the fact that I got it wrong. I wasn’t even close.
It was dangerous for me to draw a conclusion about my health based on an incomplete catalogue of knowledge. The fear that I had MS fucked with my head for a very long time. Then again, so did Dr. HC’s diagnosis.
I’m not going to bore you with details, because they are boring. Honestly it wouldn’t be interesting if I shared the long list of problems that haunted me back then. Let’s leave it at this for now: I struggled most with what I called the brain symptoms.
I asked my husband if he wanted dinner for tacos. I started to develop habits that could be mistaken as OCD tendencies when I misplaced my short-term memory. Did I turn off the stove? Check. Are the burners off? Yup. Did I remember to check the stove? Okay, but did I lock the door? Things got worse week after week, but it started with annoying stuff like that.
Stuff that would madden the most patient person. Patience is not exactly my enemy, but we don’t get along. Six months before my appointment with Dr. Second Opinion I was getting restless, because I knew that I had to be undiagnosed before I would have a shot at getting a proper diagnosis. I didn’t want to show up without an alternative theory. I was taught to bring up a problem right before presenting a solution. Hey, it usually makes sense.
I tried to diagnose myself with a little help from Dr. Firefox. Those damned articles that I mentioned in my post ‘Duh.’ were filled with the self-esteem boosting message that I know my body better than anyone. Yes, I do, but that’s not the whole story. I may know what I’ve been through and what vodka does to my sanity and what type of weather triggers migraines, but I don’t know anatomy worth a shit.
Going online for a diagnosis was a big mistake. My family doctor discouraged me from this. If she explained why, I wasn’t listening, but I know why it didn’t work for me.
We think the Internet is omniscient. If it’s not available on a browser, it doesn’t exist. When I was searching for answers, I forgot about the dusty texts in the back rooms and basements of libraries around the world. I forgot about books, period. I ignored the fact that certain medical journals are not available to everyone online. The ideas that I formed about my body were based on partial information.
After researching for hours on legit sites, I thought I had MS. It was my reaction to heat that convinced me. When I would take a shower with my husband, he shivered as I felt rubbery and tired. The showers were never hot enough to fog the mirror. Even a slight rise in temperature made me feel exhausted, and I was especially sensitive to humidity.
Heat makes pain worse for some Fibromyalgia sufferers, not fatigue. When I typed my most prevalent symptoms into the trusty search engine, the only disease that came up as a match was MS. I didn’t complicate things by noticing that many online medical queries ended with MS. In the end, though, the best proof that Internet diagnosis doesn’t work is the fact that I got it wrong. I wasn’t even close.
It was dangerous for me to draw a conclusion about my health based on an incomplete catalogue of knowledge. The fear that I had MS fucked with my head for a very long time. Then again, so did Dr. HC’s diagnosis.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
