I Touch Myself

Last week, I had another appointment with my rheumatologist. All I can say is, it was a little bit better than the last visit, no thanks to Dr. Rheumo. The real thanks goes to the cute, young Dr. Peter that was following her around. I go to a teaching medical hospital, so I see lots of medical students, interns and residents. I don’t mind. I figure they have to learn somewhere, and they might someday discover the cure for cancer or Alzheimer’s. At any rate, cute, young Dr. Peter came into my exam room and asked if he could ask some questions. Basically, he asked me my medical history, so he got the full story, complete with depression history, my two C-sections, prolonged, induced first labor, and everything leading up to my current state. We were in there about 45 minutes talking, and he really was sweet and incredibly, terribly earnest. Bless his heart.

So, while talking, I mentioned that often, I feel a lot like I used to after REALLY overdoing it at the gym (back in the Stone Age when I was rather fit and did this on a regular basis), where I didn’t want to move, and I didn’t want anyone to touch me. Of course, that feeling would pass in a day or two, and I’d be better. The trouble now is that the feeling never passes; it just stays there, or gets worse. The pain and discomfort grinds on you, not just physically (which can be difficult), but emotionally and psychologically. In my head, I KNOW there’s so much dog hair on the carpet you can no longer tell what color it really is, but I also know that using the vacuum cleaner, even for that little bit, could cause untold agony the next day. So, I have to weigh the pros and cons for everything I do. I told cute, young, earnest Dr. Peter that my family was really understanding at first, but now, it looks like I’m just lazy, since I don’t LOOK sick. It often appears to others that I have plenty of energy to do the ‘fun’ things, but no energy to do the work type things. In some ways, that’s true, since I often try to balance a certain amount of activities, like this past weekend’s trip to the Ren Fest, for my children’s benefit against how desperately the compulsive need to load the dishwasher hits.

I also told him that I got the feeling, right or wrong, that the doctors were thinking it was all in my head. I was trying to do my part, losing weight gradually (the scales backed me up on that one), slowly increasing my exercising (a delicate balance, to be sure), but when I needed the help to get there, namely pain management, I felt like I was getting the run around, being prescribed the baby aspirin of pain meds.

Like a good little student/intern, cute, young, earnest Dr. Peter ran and tattled to Dr. Rheumo. So, when she came in the room, practically the first words out of her mouth were, “We don’t think it’s all in your head, and we do believe you.” Then she gave me a prescript for some better pain meds. They don’t work great, but she also gave me the nurse’s number and her email address. I feel more like she’s with me now than before.

While visiting Dr. Rheumo, she and cute, young, earnest Dr. Peter threw out a new word – polymyalgia. Apparently, this is different than fibromyalgia. And after looking it up online, I have to agree that my symptoms do more closely align with poly. The part that’s hard to swallow? The average onset age of polymyalgia is 70. It’s unheard of in anyone under the age of 50. Necropolis says that’s because I’m aging in dog years. This brings me to something the online research suggested. Yoga.

If you had told me even 6 months ago that I’d be in a yoga class, I’m sure I would have laughed at the idea. However, even with my limited experience, I have to admit it’s been a real turning point. I haven't really bought into the whole meditation thing yet, but I do give it an honest attempt while I’m in the class. What I can’t dispute, however, is how much more loose, less tense, less stressful, just….less….I feel when I leave. It’s been amazing. I’m sure I’ll be writing about this more as time goes on and I get more involved in this. I’ve actually bought my own mat and a DVD of easy beginner stuff to do at home on the days I don’t have class. I bought a pair of yoga pants. And, I’ve knitted some yoga socks. Yeah, my feet get cold. I’ll probably knit fingerless gloves too, since my hands get cold too. Anyway, back to the socks. I looked around, and all the socks I saw looked okay, but I thought I could do better, so I came up with my own design. I have an easy-peasy version, and a more fitted version (which I prefer). I plan to put them here on the blog to share very soon. Once I actually get the second fitted sock finished. Hopefully tomorrow.

Blog entry title courtesy of The Devinyls

Dropping the F-Bomb

It has been brought to my attention recently, that I left my faithful readers hanging as to the state of my health. Rest assured, I'm still alive. I have no life-threatening conditions, and I'm not in any imminent danger of contracting some weird flesh eating virus.

To describe the process that lead me to this point would take more time than I want to spend reliving it. But, the Reader's Digest abridged version is I have had some times of chronic, non-specific pain, insomnia, migraines, fatigue and several other symptoms. I have seen a sleep specialist (and have the CPAP machine to prove it), 4 general practitioners, and a couple of specialists with no real diagnosis or relief from the symptoms. I finally got one.

The word of the moment is fibromyalgia.

I've learned a lot about it over the past month and a half, and it's been an interesting read, to say the least. After several appointments with my internist (who is quite nice), I was referred to a rheumatologist. After being poked, prodded and bent in several positions that would make a master yogi proud, I was pronounced as having fibro. I then received some of the most condescending advice I have ever received from a physician. I was told, in a nutshell, to lose weight, get some exercise, see a counselor and come back in two months.

I don't know about you, but I don't need to pay someone to tell me I'm a fat-assed, out of shape hypochondriac. Frankly, that was a lot of what I have been thinking about myself for the past couple of years, given the number of doctors, appointments and medications I have taken. To say I was insulted is putting it mildly. Actually, at first, I was totally shocked at what I was hearing. Then, I was very upset at the fact that I now had a 'word', but no real assistance, medical or otherwise, was being offered. Then, I got really angry and began to educate myself about what fibromyalgia is and isn't. It *is* real, and it's *not* in my head.

I go back to the rheumo in about two weeks, and I'll be loaded with a ream of information.

To quote a famous Savannahian, "Don't mess with The Doll, sugar."