I am writing this instead of writing a paper, but I need to get these words out so that my brain has some space to breathe.
This weekend I traveled with my family to upstate New York for my grandfather’s memorial service. It was a 4.5 hour drive to the church from our house, plus the hour from my dorm to our house, so all told I spent 11 hours in the car this weekend. The memorial service was pretty nice for the most part, aside from a dunce of a pastor who was very disappointed when no one wanted to get up and say something they remembered about grandpa after my Aunt Nancy delivered her lovely, heartwarming eulogy. He said, and I quote, “You know, when they print a short obituary in the newspaper for a man who was almost 92 years old, a lot is missing in that obituary and it’s our job today to widen it, to tell the story. [silence and sniffling] No one? No one? Well, fine then.”
That was so inappropriate for so many reasons, but I’m sure you can figure them out.
The next morning I woke up stiff and sore from the motel bed but didn’t have much opportunity to loosen up or stretch because the room was freezing, and it was even colder outside. I bundled up and hurried to the car for the following 5 hours, where I actually managed to doze off for once.
And that, I believe, was the source of my problems. I wound up in urgent care Monday (yesterday) night, having pinched my piriformis, sciatic nerve, and something (another nerve/muscle combo) in my neck all on my left side. I was in tears as the nurse examined me, and by the time the only doctor on staff came in my room all she could say was, “What do you want me to do for you?”
The car has never been a good place for me, but sitting in variations on the same position for 11 hours over the course of three days exacerbated the effects of stress and cold weather on my already loose joints, and put my joints in the perfect position to pinch important things.
Luckily I woke up this morning feeling worlds better with the help of some pain medication, lots of heat, and some more crying. Unfortunately, that state of feeling better had to come after I awoke at 3am having subluxated my right SI joint, dislocated my left first toe, and subluxated my right ankle (the one I dislocated & subsequently sprained in late April).
So I was ready to do some damage control at physical therapy today for sure.
I was doing so well – my PT had me on super low resistance exercises for my shoulders (we’re talking the yellow theraband, here) and a warmup of 10 minutes on the bike. Things were moving along well! This set me back a month, and the PT assistant who saw me today could tell I was disappointed.
I was disappointed on one level, but (dare I say it) relieved on another level. Like I said in my last post, sometimes I don’t feel like I’m chronically ill and that makes me feel guilty for not being as sick or in as much pain as the other people who are doing incredible things despite their illnesses. So I guess I asked for it: let me tell you, I was in pain. My PT completely understood, and gave me some advice on how to stay on top of the cycle of pain so that even if I am feeling well, I have to take the medication so that hell doesn’t break loose like it did last night. I am so lucky that she can fully understand the difference between chronic and acute pain, and that we’re on the same page when it comes to treatment: she knows that she’s treating for the acute pain, so that dislocations and subluxations don’t happen nearly as frequently, so that we can get down to the chronic level and work from there.
And this praise of my wonderful PT brings me to the source of my frustration this evening: my PCP. I was going to rant on twitter with a multitude of 140-character mini-complaints, but I decided those would be better fleshed out here in full, if only for my own satisfaction and stress release.
My PCP, for the sake of this blog hereby titled Dr. M, has been reluctant to listen to me from the start. My freshman year I came to her complaining of increased joint pain, and she told me that it was because I had stopped dancing. I probed a little further on my next visit, and she admitted that I was a “little” hypermobile, but that it was the result of 18 years of ballet and that to alleviate the pain I should do some rigorous exercise.
When I came in next, it was for a subluxation of my SI joint that occurred while I was exercising. I brought in my research on Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and she didn’t even look at it. I went down the list of symptoms and diagnosis factors with her and she did some blood work to test for rheumatoid arthritis and referred me to the rheumatologist, who was absolutely no help whatsoever. She was brusque, disbelieving, and hadn’t even bothered to look in to connective tissue disorders. When she asked me to demonstrate one of the Beighton criteria by bending my thumb toward my forearm, she asked me to bend it backwards, with my palm facing the sky.
Well of course it wouldn’t touch my forearm that way! I couldn’t think fast enough to contradict or correct her because she was so cold and thoughtless.
When I followed up with Dr. M shortly thereafter, I needed her to believe me. I needed her to put a name on the pain that wouldn’t go away, the pain that kept me out of class some days, the pain that made me hard to live or be friends with. I was desperate for a diagnosis because the psychological pain of not having answers was getting to be unbearable. I think many chronically ill patients would agree with me when I say that the psychological pain of remaining undiagnosed was sometimes worse than the physical pain of the disease itself.
I spent nearly every night on the EDS message boards on the Inspire site, adding to my growing pile of evidence that EDS fit my symptoms perfectly. Even the “colors” of the disorder were perfect: zebra stripes, because doctors are taught to look for horses when they hear hoofbeats, not zebras, and thus leave many unusual or rare diseases undiagnosed while ruling out the more common ones.
I told Dr. M all this when I came to her nearly in tears, begging for a diagnosis, but she didn’t give in. She still hasn’t, in fact. Her excuses vary each and every time I see her: don’t I want a clear health record for health insurance? surely I want a low insurance rate? I must be worried about being discriminated against by potential employers, right?
Yes, yes, and yes. Yes to all the concerns about having a chronic, incurable illness. Yes, I’m worried about being discriminated against (I already have been, but that’s another story for another day) and I’m worried that if Obama doesn’t win I’ll have to scrounge together health insurance where I can find it once I turn 26 if I am diagnosed with a preexisting condition.
But those concerns are nothing compared to the weight of being undiagnosed. Unofficially, I have been diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Hypermobility type by a geneticist friend, my physical therapist, my pediatrician, and both urgent care doctors I have seen, but the diagnosis on my chart is “Joint Hypermobility Syndrome” (yes, yes, I know that’s a generalized way of saying EDS, but try telling that to Dr. M!). This means that I start shaking in the waiting room every time I see Dr. M because I’m worried she won’t listen to me yet again. I get stressed and grumpy and generally anxious in the days leading up to an appointment with her because I’m bracing myself for another confrontation where I will have to lose, again, as the “uneducated” patient without a medical degree.
So this is what I am facing as I anxiously await my Friday appointment with Dr. M to “reevaluate” my usage of tramadol. Let’s be completely clear: tramadol turned me back into a human after months of pain at the level where I couldn’t even wrap myself in a blanket for the pressure it placed on my aching joints. Tramadol is an opiate agonist, which means that there are concerns with taking it as a long-term pain medication, and I’m completely aware of those concerns. Since it changes the way your brain experiences pain, every time the dosage wears off you can go into a mild withdrawal state where the pain actually feels worse than it would otherwise. This is the issue of dependence, which all EDS literature states is not dangerous. Dependence is different from addiction, which is very dangerous. These are nuances that Dr. M doesn’t understand.
The first appointment when I brought up EDS, her response was, “Why do you need a diagnosis for a disease that has no treatment? You’re taking ibuprofen for the pain, and our only options for managing the symptoms are that or narcotics, so I don’t see the point.”
Ibuprofen or narcotics for pain management. Oh, what’s that you say? But I’m on a medication other than ibuprofen that is also not a narcotic? You’re right, that was a fluke of the urgent care doctor last month. She prescribed it, understanding the different methods of treating chronic pain.
Why is it so hard for Dr. M to understand? What can I do differently to help her understand?
This life-saving fluke may very well be revoked from me on Friday if I can’t shake my fears long enough to A) explain myself or B) request a new PCP (I’m requesting a new one after Friday regardless, no worries there).
This afternoon, my PT said a little word that altered the course of my day, changing it from bad to better. She said, “I know this flare was hard, but you stay on top of that medication and we’ll do our best on our part to bring you back to baseline.” She called what happened to me yesterday a flare. A flare! That word is used to describe increased RA symptoms, but I had only ever applied it to mine in my head, afraid that someone would call me out for being a fraud (there’s another f-word I’m seeing in my mental space more often lately…have to take care of that.).
She put a name to that “incident” that legitimized my pain and frustration, and I’m sure she didn’t even do it on purpose! The magic in this one little word is probably hard to comprehend for someone who neither has a chronic illness nor is a caregiver for a spoonie patient, which I suspect is Dr. M’s problem. But imagine how much it would mean to have the words “Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome” come out of her mouth in relation to me, to a final diagnosis! Sure, I’ve been living with an effective diagnosis, and she has intimated that if it weren’t for her own concerns she would write it on paper, but it would be like that commercial for Claritin where the picture is shown in grey until the subject takes the Claritin and sees the world in color: my world could be in color. I would be “official” and I would never have to deal with feelings of inadequacy or fraudulence again. I could advocate for others in a similar situation without hiding behind a façade of wellness, and I could let this new advocacy voice perform at full capacity.
I should note, as an addendum, that every specialist I have seen has interpreted the official diagnosis of Joint Hypermobility Syndrome as EDS, which is why I can go about my life as if my PCP had made the diagnosis, since it would seem that every medical professional except her is up to date on their terminology. So I call it by its more well-known name, and hope that one day Dr. M will, too.