And the verdict is in: they’re calling me a liar

June 6, 2012

You’d think by now I’d be used to having people call me a liar, but somehow it’s still upsetting me.  Of course, they don’t actually use that word, but it’s the same message anyway.

Yesterday I got the official word that my claim for long term disability insurance was denied.  According to them, there’s nothing in my record to suggest that I can’t work at my old job.  Maybe they want a blood test to prove fatigue?  Great, invent one and I’ll happily take it!  Otherwise, fuck off.

When the symptoms first began I was a kid, and some people suggested that I was making it up to get attention.  Then there were others who believed that I really thought I was in pain, but that the pain wasn’t real, so they suggested I see a psychologist.  That was only barely an improvement, but at least they believed that I meant it.

Over the years I have had to plead my case to many people.  If I had something easily recognizable and definitely diagnosable, like cancer, there wouldn’t be an issue.  People would offer sympathy and would try to help.  If I’d been in a car crash, with the accompanying photos and x-rays and whatnot, they wouldn’t question it.  But I have invisible illnesses, hard to define, hard to diagnose, with symptoms that vary from person to person, and that vary for a given person from day to day.  So the easiest thing?  Say it’s not real and enjoy living in denial.  That’s great for them, but it doesn’t do me a damn bit of good.

To add insult to injury, every time I have to plead my case, I have to focus even more on the most negative thing in my life.  It isn’t enough that I have to live with this shit, think about it constantly, rearrange my life for it repeatedly, and give up my dreams for it, apparently it’s also necessary that I relive the worst of it just to convince some asshole that they really must pay me the money that they owe me.  Signing up for the insurance policy and paying the premiums guarantees a right to file a claim; it doesn’t for a second mean that the claim will be approved.  So how do I prove that I was so exhausted when I stopped working, I had to take a break and lie down to rest in the middle of getting dressed each morning?

I realized a few weeks ago that the claim would probably be denied, and mentally I was ready for it, but I guess that emotionally I hadn’t prepared.  Mentally I figured out what I would need to do to appeal the decision.  Emotionally, I didn’t realize how strongly I would react to being called a liar again.  Again.  Always, over and over, year after year, decade after decade, people would rather believe that I’m lying or confused than believe the truth: that this could just as easily happen to them, too.

Of course in this case, it’s probably just as much about the money.


Stairway success

June 4, 2012

As I carefully avoid gluten and dutifully do my physical therapy exercises, not to mention generally taking care of my body, I’m trying to be aware of the small improvements.  I’d love to wake up tomorrow and feel fantastic, but I know that won’t happen, so I want to be realistic about small wins.

Today’s small win is against my staircase.  I live on the third floor of my apartment building.  I only considered a third floor apartment because there was an elevator in the building.  Of course, when the elevator breaks down (which happens more than you’d think) then I have to take the stairs.

My knees started to bother me on stairs and hills many years ago, probably around 1999.  Earlier that year I’d climbed the stairs up La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona – I later discovered it was about 450 stairs.  By the next year, a single flight was incredibly painful.  As I’ve been strengthening my muscles, I’ve hoped to be able to climb more stairs without feeling like my knees are filled with jelly.

The goal was never to climb 450 stairs again.  I mean, I wouldn’t complain if I had that option, but again, I’m trying to be realistic.  I figured that if I could climb the stairs to my third floor without any pain, that would be amazing.  I have been working on this for a while now.  I won’t say that it’s completely painless, and I don’t even try it when I’m carrying anything heavy, but when I reach my floor, I can actually walk down the hall without limping, and within a few minutes the aches are gone!  Even better, I can get to the third floor without that jelly feeling!  And for the first time in the 6 years that I’ve lived here, I can now climb all the way from the 1st floor to the 3rd without having to stop and rest on the way up!!

I’m not running up 5 flights of stairs, I’m not looking for stairs instead of elevators everyplace I go, and I’m not choosing the stairs when I’m carrying extra weight, but for me, this is a WIN!


All signs point to starting over

May 29, 2012

***Check out the Patients for a Moment blog carnival hosted by Chronic Babe***

Sometimes all signs point the same way.  This seems to be one of those times, so I better pay attention.

The symptoms started when I was 12.  I got the IBS diagnosis at 22 and the PCOS diagnosis at 25.  The “big one” was in between at 23: undifferentiated connective tissue disease.  This doesn’t mean a whole lot, but vague as it is, it’s more than I had before.  Hypothyroid came around age 26 and Hashimoto’s was around age 31.  There were others in there too, but they were smaller.  Then again, I thought most of these were pretty small, too.  After all, hypothyroid didn’t mean anything more than taking a pill every morning.  And according to my doctor, Hashimoto’s had the same treatment as hypothyroid.  PCOS also didn’t mean much until I was ready to have kids, which hasn’t happened yet.  And IBS is a nice name and all, but the only treatment is diet, and I was really left on my own to figure that out, aside from the somewhat-useful-in-a-very-limited-way pamphlet I got from the doctor.  No, the big one was definitely the connective tissue diagnosis.

I had symptoms for 11 years before I got any sort of autoimmune diagnosis, so I’d had plenty of time to come to terms with my symptoms and their permanence in my life.  I had a good handle on things.  So why did my world turn upside down again with that diagnosis?  Suddenly I was going through the 5 stages of grief all over again.  It was like I had to start over.

Last year my symptoms got much worse than they had been before and I finally had to leave my job.  That short absence has turned into a permanent one (at least from that job) and that pushed me to start researching my illnesses all over again.  I want to get back to work at some point.  I want to date.  I want to actually live my life!  So I found web sites and books and online groups.  I discovered some new things I hadn’t known about, and suddenly I was starting over with everything.

For the last month my mind has been whirling with the possibilities.  It has been overwhelming and frustrating, but it’s also provided some hope for the first time in many years.  I may be worse now than I was before, but it seems possible that I could improve, and feel better than I ever have in my adult life.  I’m scared to think that way, but it seems possible.

Every week WEGO Health hosts a tweetchat for health activists (Tuesdays 3pm EST, #HAChat – please join!)  Among other things, today we discussed the effects of having a diagnosis.  That really got me thinking about how I feel like I have a new diagnosis now.  In truth I have the same diagnoses as before, but I’ve just realized that Hashimoto’s and hypothyroid should be treated differently and that my PCOS and IBS could be treated differently too!  It’s as if I was just diagnosed.  I’m considering treatments that I’d never heard of until a few months ago.

As my wheels were still turning this afternoon, I found out about the Patients for a Moment blog carnival being hosted by ChronicBabe this week.  The topic?  “Starting fresh.”  Perfect, right?  Here’s what they want:

Is there something you’re doing that’s new, or different from how you’ve done it before? Are you starting something over that you previously didn’t succeed at doing? Are you giving a new doctor, medication, lifestyle behavior or workout regimen a shot? Fill us in on your experience!

Like I said, all the signs were pointing the same way.  So I gave in.  I took the time to really think about how strange it is to be going through all of this, especially so many years after what I had thought was my “definitive” diagnosis.  This just goes to prove that the learning never ends.  I am reading constantly, following blogs and tweetchats, trying my best to figure out which is the best approach to take.  I am talking to alternative practitioners to learn about their different approaches.  [I’ve been amazed at how willing they are to spend 1/2 hour on the phone telling me about what they do – the traditional doctors I contact don’t do this.]  I am on a gluten-free diet and looking into more dietary changes.  I am researching supplements and different medications.  I am adjusting my expectations.  I am asking for ideas from friends and family.  For the first time in many years, I can be proactive again.  In short, I am acting like a newly-diagnosed patient almost a decade after my first diagnosis and two decades after the onset of symptoms, and I love it. 


That kid thing

May 23, 2012

Just when I think I’ve accepted that I’ll never have kids, I get pulled back in.

Most of us are taught that life is supposed to go a certain way:

grow up –> get a job –> get married –> buy a house –> have children –> retire

Of course a lot of that is just social conditioning.  That is the path that some people will take, but it isn’t the path for many others, and that’s fine.  The important thing is that each person does what is best for them.  It’s important to first figure out what you really want, then find a way to make it happen.

I’ve thought a lot about what I really want, and I realized that I really do want children.  I don’t feel the need to own a house (though I still feel the social pressure for that) but I really do want to have kids.  I’ve watched many close friends have children in recent years, and as fun as it is to be an auntie, it makes me ache for motherhood.  [This picture is me as an auntie.]

The idea that I won’t have kids isn’t new.  Between my actual physical problems which would make pregnancy difficult (I’d have a lot of bed rest, I’m sure), the PCOS which would make conceiving challenging, the trouble I’d have caring for them, and the genes I could pass on, I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t have kids. Well, I mostly decided it.  I mean, I thought that would be the case.  I guess a small part of me always held out hope that things would change.

Watching my friends go through it, I try to focus on the bad parts.  Pregnancy does crazy things to a woman’s body.  Babies are all about sleepless nights and disgusting diapers.  They complicate your life.  They cost money.  Who needs it?  Life is easier without kids.  And a few years ago was one thing, but now I’m about to officially be in my mid-30s, so it’s not like I could get pregnant for much longer anyway.  I can’t imagine being able to adopt kids with my health problems, and again, how would I care for them?  No, I simply won’t have kids.  That’s all there is to it.  [Of course, it’s always possible that I’ll marry someone who has kids from a previous relationship, but that’s a bridge I’d cross when I came to it, and I’m definitely not counting on it.]

In the last few weeks I’ve been doing a lot of research about some treatment options for my health problems.  There’s no cure, of course, but for the first time I can imagine that things could actually improve a lot.  My energy could come back, the pain could decrease, the nausea could mostly go away.  If that happened, I’d want to date again, and maybe I wouldn’t be so worried about letting someone get close to me.  Maybe I’d finally meet someone to marry.  I also read about fixing PCOS.  Maybe I’d even be able to get pregnant easily.  If I really felt better, and was in a solid relationship, maybe I’d have kids….

OH CRAP!

I caught myself in that train of thought and it was as clear as ever: I still want kids.  I don’t want to want them.  I’d love to not want them.  Call it the biological clock, call it social conditioning, I don’t care what you call it.  I want kids.

It’s very unlikely that I’ll ever have children of my own.  I’d love to avoid kids altogether, to forget they exist, but of course life doesn’t work that way.  Health problems have robbed me of a lot of things that I’ve managed over the years to accept.  I never had that great feeling of invincibility that I’ve heard most teenagers have.  I had to work twice as hard in school because I couldn’t write.  I’ve lost relationships and avoided starting relationships.  I’ve lost jobs and missed out on great career opportunities.  And I won’t have children.  I hope that one day I really can accept that.