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<\/a><\/p>\nIt was\u00a0a long night of shaking hands and hyperventilating. My husband offered to bring me my asthma inhaler, but inhalers don\u2019t fix panic attacks. When my husband\u2019s alarm went off at 6am, and I pulled the covers over my head and curled up into a tight little ball \u2013 nauseous\u00a0and resentful before the day had even begun.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to go,\u201d I whispered to my pillow. When my pillow didn\u2019t reply, I schlumped my way out of bed and bristled my way into the kitchen. \u201cI hate doctors. I hate hospitals. I don\u2019t want to go,\u201d I told my mug of tea. It silently steeped, and didn\u2019t answer me.<\/p>\n
Ella rolled into the kitchen, her long face a mirror of my own. \u201cWe don\u2019t have to go,\u201d she sighed. \u201cThere\u2019s still time to cancel.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head and yawned, \u201cquarterly appointment\u2026rheumatologist\u2026blah, blah, blah.\u201d<\/p>\n
The corner of her mouth twitched as she informed me, \u201cI don\u2019t think you\u2019re actually supposed to say \u2018blah, blah, blah.\u2019 It\u2019s an expression not real speech.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re too smart for eleven,\u201d was my only reply. My shaking hands and racing heart betrayed how shot my nerves have become.<\/p>\n
As my husband kissed me good-bye he apologized for not being able to join us for the marathon-length specialist visit. I told him it would be fine, reassuring myself as much as him. I hate this so much. I hate feeling weak. I hate feeling scared. I hate that this past year has stolen my trust in doctors and taught me to fear.<\/p>\n
During the hour-long drive, Ella sang her heart out to classic Disney songs and I practiced the relaxation breathing techniques I learned from my therapist. (That was the bonus gift that came with the panic attacks \u2013 my very own therapist. Yay!)<\/p>\n
\u201cThey never listen. They just don\u2019t. I\u2019m wrong and they\u2019re right. Conversion disorder. I\u00a0fucking\u00a0hate the words Conversion Disorder<\/em>. The physical evidence was right in front of them and they refused to see it. They missed the whole diagnosis. She\u2019s a fucking paraplegic<\/em> because no one would listen when we asked for help. Stupid doctors. Who diagnosed her? I did, that\u2019s who. I don\u2019t know why we even need them.\u201d ranted\u00a0the\u00a0angry mom-voice in my head.<\/p>\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to go,\u201d I whispered to the car. It said nothing, just carried us forward.<\/p>\n
Tears flooded my eyes as we stepped through the sliding doors and into the rheumatology clinic at the hospital. They always do now. A year ago, these appointments were just another thing to check off of the to-do list. Now they\u2019re a foray into hostile\u00a0territory. Bad things happen in hospitals. They\u2019ve happened to our family. Step through those doors and you lose your control. You learn very quickly that the letters M and D are infinitely more powerful than the letters M-O-M.<\/p>\n
My heart pounded, echoing in my ears, and I mentally chanted \u201cIt\u2019s just PTSD. It\u2019s a trick of your mind. It\u2019s PTSD. There\u2019s not really any danger today. It\u2019s PTSD.\u201d I swallowed the lump in my throat and signed the paperwork checking her in. I slowly\u00a0let out the breath I didn\u2019t realize I\u2019d been holding. \u201cIt\u2019s PTSD,\u201d I reminded myself. \u201cThere\u2019s no danger here.\u201d<\/p>\n
A routine height and weight check, and then into the exam room. The crinkle of the exam room table stands the hair on my neck on end. Ella listened to the music on my phone, as oblivious to my mental distress as she has been to most of what went on behind the scenes in our search for a diagnosis. Someday I will tell her about it all, but not today. She\u2019s only 11 and it would scare her. It has scared the fuck out of me.<\/p>\n
The medical student came in first, as she always does, honing\u00a0the clinical skills she will need in her own practice. \u201cI\u2019ve looked over her chart,\u201d she informed me,\u00a0\u201cand read her medical history.\u201d She turned to Ella and asked her to stand up out of her wheelchair and walk as many steps as she can.<\/p>\n
Liar. She knows nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe can\u2019t walk.\u201d I tell her.<\/p>\n
He eyebrow lifts. \u201cNothing? Not even to stand a little? Because of the arthritis in her knees? What if she really wants to? Can she do it if she holds my hand and really tries?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not the arthritis,\u201d I tell her simply. \u201cShe had a spinal cord injury. L5-S1. It\u2019s not a matter of will. She just can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
And in that moment, I can tell by her face that no one has updated the chart. It still says Conversion on the line for diagnosis. Nobody has put in the test results and new diagnosis from last October. I can see it as plainly as I can see that her eyes are brown. We\u2019re still suspect, and this still isn\u2019t over.<\/p>\n
I fucking hate this.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
**I say the F word a few\u00a0times in this post, and thought it a lot more than that while I was writing it. If you\u2019re turned off by language like that, I\u2019ll see you another day.** It was\u00a0a long night of shaking hands and hyperventilating. My husband offered to bring me my asthma inhaler, but […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1979,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[6,19,82,17],"class_list":["post-4145","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-ella","tag-mystery-illness","tag-ptsd","tag-rant"],"yoast_head":"\n
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<\/a><\/p>\n