I made an extra doctor’s visit this year.  I don’t like the doctors.  Truthfully, I don’t know many people who do, but the thought of a doctor’s office has been enough to keep me dealing with pretty severe pain for an extra six months rather than schedule an appointment.  (True story, not one of my better self-care moments.)  So when I say I made an extra doctor’s visit this year, please hear that statement with some impact.

One of my medications had failed.  Spectacularly failed.  Kept me down and from work for the better part of a week failed.  Massive pain.  Barely scraping together the work I did do.  Not acceptable.  So once I’d pulled my head far enough away from the Ibuprofen bottle, the largely ineffective Ibuprofen bottle, and managed to think clearly enough to figure out which doctor to call, I scheduled an appointment.  (And then the pain kept being bad enough that I wound up in Urgent Care just to make sure I wasn’t crazy and they gave me some better drugs.  Bless them.  So I actually saw doctors two extra times.)

I like this doctor.  (I don’t go back to any medical professional I don’t like.)  We went over my symptoms and their progression and talked pain scale.  And then she started to talk about a diagnosis and changed my medication. So far it’s mostly working.

It’s not a great diagnosis, but it’s something I’ve been waiting six years to hear.  It took three years before the symptoms were bad enough to get me to a doctor’s (this includes that six-month period I mention above).  And then three years while the first round of medications worked without a proper diagnosis.

But you can’t go to a doctor with “I think there’s more to my now symptom-less problem.”  So after six years I have a diagnosis.  I can start asking for treatments and medications that will be effective.   I can stop wondering if I’m crazy, if this will fail, guessing about a cloud of mystery.

Because now I know.  Now my doctors know.  Now we can do something.  This is the power of  a diagnosis.

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