A day passes. My phone pings. I have an email. The notification indicates it is from a doctor. Wait. I have two doctor emails. I’m impressed. I open the first from Dr. McIrish.
It is one sentence long……He does not respond at all to my new symptoms. Instead he simply states I should check with Dr. Moves because he thinks Dr. Moves had planned to reduce my gabapentin.
NOT HELPFUL!!!! *&!@!$*
The second email is from a nurse in Dr. Move’s office. She informs me that the new very special doctor I need to see will probably start in office appointments in August. It’s currently mid-June and 6 months since this all started. However, I can start physical therapy and to let them know if I would like the number to schedule.
As Pom-Pom Panda (a children’s book) says, “Harumph!”
After many, many deep breaths I find the clarity to respond back. I thank the nurse and ask for the number for physical therapy. I then proceed to inform her and Dr. Moves of my new nerve pain/increased symptoms and the plan to increase gabapentin, mentioning Dr. McIrish’s concern.
Dr. Moves emails back the next day. He agrees that starting physical therapy right away is a good idea and he also thinks I should definitely continue at the increased dose if it’s helping.
Ha! Take that Dr. McIrish.
I email Dr. McHH to update him with information from the neurologists and the plan to start physical therapy immediately. I am unable to resist taking a slight dig at McIrish. Sorry dude, but if you are not going to be helpful…
I schedule physical therapy. One of the few perks of being teacher during summer amidst a pandemic is that I have plenty of time to schedule doctor appointments and there is no worrying about who will watch the kids. My first appointment is in a few days.
I wake up the morning of my physical therapy appointment. I have been waiting for this day for months, 6 months to be exact. I give myself plenty of time to get to the dreaded Danish Blueberry Mound. The scheduler let me know the clinic was next to the Starbucks. I spend the drive listening to NPR and planning my drink order.
Danish Blueberry Mound feels empty, most of the lounge chairs removed. I make my way through the covid screening, find the Starbucks, and register at the physical therapy desk. My jazz hand busy performing, the person at the desk is concerned I won’t be able to write to fill out forms. I told her, no worries, I got this.
I wait awhile and then Z comes out for me. She reminds me of our school’s garden program coordinator. Z strikes me as someone who could have easily gone to my university, one known for it more hippie, liberal vibe. Even Z’s name. The spelling. I wonder if that is what her parents named her or what she decided to name herself.
Z and I quickly get off on the wrong foot. She seems annoyed with me and I watch as she gets flustered talking to me. This is not good. She asks questions that don’t have straight answers and then gets frustrated when I can’t give her straight answers. I feel myself withdrawing, getting smaller. I don’t want her to be mad at me.
For whatever reason, this happens to me sometimes. Sometimes there are women who on paper I should get along with fabulously. And then we just don’t. Maybe it is that we are too similar? Maybe I get viewed as a threat? I’ve had experiences where I’ve gotten bullied by someone who should be my friend but instead seems intent on making me feel small. Worst is when I’ve been shamed. My (always shaky) confidence crumbles.
I feel this happen with Z. I can’t seem to say the right thing. We just are not understanding each other. I watch as she begins to lose her patience. This is definitely a new experience for me in the medical setting.
As the time ends, she acknowledges that I seem to know a lot about functional movement disorders. She is pleasantly surprised I know what mindfulness is. Hello? Middle school teacher here. Education these days is all about mindfulness.
She states that I need to start doing less if I want to get better. I know this is true. Dave needs to do more. She thinks craniosacral is a good idea and I should do more if I can afford it. Z decides I will need a total of 8 appointments. Today is number one.
I spend the drive home silently berating myself. Why couldn’t I just say the right thing? Why do I have to be so dumb? So awkward?
I spend the rest of the day and the next in bed. My body hurts. It burns. I’m just so tired — physically tired, mentally tired. I read. I binge watch Queer Eye on Netflix. I sleep. At times, I can barely summon the energy to lift my head, the strange nerve sensations pulsing through my arms and back.
I want to take the kids to the beach. The sun is out and it’s warm. Eileen is so excited. But then I get so tired. Beach day then changes to an evening picnic at the beach. And then the clouds roll in, it begins to rain. Eileen blames me. I blame me.
I’m not depressed, but I feel broken. I feel trapped in this new reality.
Stupid Danish Blueberry Mound. Seven more weeks.