I wanted to title this post 'Why Dr. Gorman is a Mutha Fu#$%er" but I decided that would be too negative. Too harsh. Too Un-Zen like.
My friend, Shannon, gave me the idea to use this as similar title in reference to Mr. Dwyer, my daughter's teacher, in my blog titled: "For Some Reason I Can't Find a Title For This One". But as funny as it is and as much as I felt it at the time, I realized that wasn't really fair. But I still thought Mr. Dwyer was a mutha fu#$%er. For about 2 minutes or so. Hey, when you lose someone's kid, let's face it, you are one.
As for Dr. Gorman, he definitely fits the bill. Here's why:
In August 1999, when I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with my daughter, who is my youngest, I went to a cookout as most of us do in the summer. I don't know if it was because we arrived late, and I ended up eating later than everyone else, or if it was what my doctor would later describe as the 'perfect hormonal, genealogical and bacterial storm', but after leaving the cookout, hours later, I became violently ill.
Violently. ill.
So ill, I had broken blood vessels in the whites of my eyes and in the skin under the heights of my cheekbones. It was fast, but furious. I remember checking a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I wiped my face and barely recognizing myself. I looked a little Linda Blair-esque, from 'The Exorcist". On her worst day. I saw the concern on my husband's face as I opened the bathroom door. After an appointment with my doctor, we determined it was food poisoning. More than likely, the kind that you get from contaminated mayonnaise, as I did have potato salad that day.
Within 4 weeks, I was experiencing what I thought was normal 'almost-9 months-pregnant- swelling'. Heel pain, ankle pain, swelling in my lower extremities, Knees the size of navel oranges. I mentioned it at a routine check with my OB/GYN and of course he dismissed it as, well, being pregnant.
I gave birth. Miraculous, lovely, hellfire in a handbag, birth. And weeks later, as in 6 to 7 weeks later, the swelling was worse. Sometimes I had trouble getting up out of bed the pain was so bad. The swelling had migrated to the rest of my body, attacking my joints, and at times my husband would have help me hold my daughter to my chest while I nursed her because it became so hard to do so on my own. I knew things had reached a level that I could no longer ignore, when my mother came to visit one day and upon the sight of me, she started to cry. I looked like a blowfish. A blowfish who happened to be lactating.
I phoned my PCP and made an appointment. After her examination, and some shotty blood work results that revealed a high ANA titer, I was off to my first rheumatologist. My first of five rheumatologists.
1) Dr. Crotchety (not his real name) started with a blood work review, an examination and then a slew of health history and present history questions. A ton of them. At the end of my appointment he recommended that I treat with ibuprofen. He was going on an extended vacation for 3 weeks and wanted me to return for a visit after I medicated with ibuprofen regularly during that time period. While Dr. Crotchety was sunbathing his frail, pale, little self, I had to have multiple joints aspirated (the fluid sucked out with a needle. A very long needle.) And multiple times. Five times actually between my PCP's office and the Emergency Room of my local hospital. After I told him what happened while he was gone, he seemed less than concerned. I decided it was best for Dr. Crotchety and me to part ways. I truly believe that Dr. Crotchety thought I had "Stay at home Mom's disease." Dr. Crotchety, you suck.
2) Dr. John Gorman. Ah, Dr. Gorman. The almost title of this particular blog post. Dr. Gorman had NO bed side manner. Nothing at all. He was flat and stoic and had big, thick glasses, apparently very poor eyesight. He didn't smile and he certainly did not seem to have any interest in me other than looking at me like I was another medical chart. He, too, reviewed me and my blood work and my history. He then took another history, long and extensive, filled with all kinds of questions. He left the room for 15 minutes or so and when he reentered, from the furthest corner of the room, as I sat on the squishy table with that stupid flimsy piece of white paper under me, his arms folded across his chest, looking sheepish, he said: "You have Ankylosing Spondylitis." He proceeded to tell me all of the awful things that were about to happen to me: spinal fusion, possible heart and lung issues, incapacitation, just to name a few. When I, on the verge of tears, asked him how long all of this would take to happen to me, he responded flatly with: "You will more than likely be collecting a disability check by the time you reach the age of 40." I was 31. With 2 kids under the age of 5.
As all of this swirled around inside my head, and I repeated words that scared the shit out of me over and over, cruelly inside my head, Dr. Gorman offered to aspirate my knees right there while I was in the office, as they were beyond swollen. I nodded my head in agreement. I took my jeans off and lay under another stupid flimsy piece of white paper, while he left to prepare for the sucking of my knees. When he returned alone, and started towards me with the needle, I requested a nurse. You see, holding a hand during aspiration really helps, I had explained. He rolled his eyes at me. HE ROLLED HIS EYES AT ME. Yes, most definitely, an EYEROLL, and then he left the room without one word, almost in a huff, as if I had majorly inconvenienced him. While he retrieved a nurse, or a secretary or a patient from another room, for all I know, I calmly put my jeans back on, balled up the two oversized sheets of flimsy white paper and threw them in the trash and as I was exiting his exam room, he came back in with a woman in scrubs. To his surprise, I was no longer sandwiched between the two pieces of ridiculously uncomfortable flimsy white paper and as he began to speak, clearly irritated, I put my juicy finger up to my lips as if to say "hush" and said quietly: "There is no fu%$*ng way that I am going to let an a$$hole like you stick a needle into me." He looked horrified and I could have sworn I heard the lady in scrubs giggle under her breath, and more laughter ensued when I announced to Dr. Gorman's entire waiting room full of patients, just what I thought of him, highlighted with my favorite four letter words. Arrivederci, Dr. Gorman.
3) Dr. Elizabeth Clark and I met in late 2000. I was part of a study at The Brigham and Women's hospital in Boston. I was one of 2 women that she had ever treated with what would now became her diagnosis: Reiter's Syndrome. I was put on a cocktail of drugs that helped, but required my blood to be tested every 3 months due to host of adverse effects: bone marrow toxicity and kidney failure, being the two of most concern. She was wonderful, and left shortly after I became her patient, to stay home with her children. I hope she ended up practicing again. She really was a great lady. She made me feel like a person, not just a patient.
4) Dr. Libbey picked up where she left off. She thought my diagnosis was a little more complex. She feared I had a gene called HBLA-27. Not a nice gene to have. She recommended I not test for the gene, because it became difficult to get life insurance once you tested positive for HBLA-27. I decided to assume that I had the gene, as a number of my distant family members on my mother's side had various spondylitises and other related diseases such as Crohn's.
5) In 2003, I tested positive for Lyme disease, and saw ‘THE LYME GUY’ on the east coast, Dr. Sam Donta. He felt that I was a classic, chronic, long term Lyme Disease sufferer and believed that I was infected in 1999, did not actually have an episode of food poisoning, must have had a tick encounter, and had now had Lyme for over 4 years. Dr. Libbey vehemently disagreed, and she and Dr. Donta proceeded to write nasty letters to one another asserting their opinion, leaving me to wonder what the hell I had. And I asked myself repeatedly "Am I crazy?"
Throughout this time I would flare, go on massive doses of steroids to calm myself down and as a result, my medication list just grew. I ended up taking medications to combat medications, a vicious cycle. Methotrexate, Sulfasalazine, Indomethacin, Prednisone...blah, blah, blah. I developed a moon face (a widened face) and a slight bulge on my upper back (both results of mega, long term steroid use) and every time I would go on steroids I would gain between 10-20 pounds within the first 30 days.
By the end of 2004, I was sick of being sick. My body was attacking its own connective tissue. My body literally thought that my joints and all that was contained within them and around them was some kind of enemy invader. I would get such significant inflammation in my eyes that my ophthalmologist instructed his staff, that if I called with symptoms (of iritis) I was to be immediately fit into his schedule. I would get it every 3 months or so. If left untreated, iritis can cause vision loss.
In 2005, I had had it. Dr. Libbey and I did not see eye to eye on my treatment, I found my voice and my inner strength and I decided that I needed to remove all related medications to my disease(s) from my life. I decided instead to stick with regular full body massage, changes to my diet, visualization techniques, positivity, and grinning and bearing it. Consequently, Dr. Libbey thinks I am an ignorant buffoon. I think that after knowing Dr. Libbey for a decade, it's time for her to get a new hairstyle. Seriously, Doc.
In 2006, I was diagnosed with atypical trigeminal neuralgia. More than likely unrelated. Probably a result of a softball injury when I was 14 years old that required reconstructive surgery on my face. ATN causes unbelievably agonizing nerve pain that attacks the left side of my face. Again, probably not related to the rest, but it just seems to be the cherry on top. And I despise cherries, even on my hot fudge sundae. But I love nuts. What's a sundae without nuts?
Think I am a hypochondriac yet? I sure did. My employer sure did. I am sure there were friends and family that thought for sure I was. There were days that work, life, eating, thinking, etc. were just not possible. There were weeks spent in bed. My husband wanted me fixed. My children would act up in school when I was at my worst. They were scared and sad. Hypochondria was the least of my worries.
So why do I write all of this you wonder? It's certainly not because I like to talk about it. For years, when I was in a flare, if I was going out with friends, I would call them the night before or the morning of to let them know I was having trouble getting around, if I would go at all. I would ask them to just ignore it, and if I winced in pain, to please just smile. Pity was annoying, and made things worse. They obliged. Thank you all. I am not sure if I ever thanked them for that.
So again why do I write this? I do not need praise. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me or think of me as someone with a long list of issues. The truth is, I still generally flare every 2 1/2 to 3 years. I am due in January 2014. It can happen anytime, if stress levels get high and my body reawakens to the indication that it has to fight my own tissue, it will happen again.
AGAIN, why write THIS. The reason I write this all down is I am now a runner. I actually wrote that last sentence a few times. First I tried it as "I now run". Then I typed it as "I have now taken up running." But you know what? I am a runner. I have been so hesitant to call myself that, I don't know why, but I have.
I am a runner.
Something I never, ever thought I would be. I tried it a few years ago and back in college I tried to run and I couldn't do it. I always thought that, Jesus, if I couldn't be a runner at a healthy 21 years old, how could I ever accomplish it as I age. And as a sick person, to boot. Not happening. I had been labeled and relabeled and relabeled again and again and again. Labeling blows. It really does. Some call it diagnosing. If it's not a sure fire thing, then I call it labeling. In my not-so-professional-opinion, the medical world is filled with medically educated guessing. Doctors are not Gods to us all, they are human, and it took me a long time to realize that I was not going to label myself as 'sick'. No matter what I actually had.
Most of you already know that, from my incessant posting of my mileage accomplishments on Facebook, that I am running. I post for myself to keep me motivated and in check but I also do it for that somebody else. That somebody who spends more time on the couch feeling old and tired, who is stuck in a rut (I know my way around a rut) or is in the clutches of a crushing depression (been there). That certain somebody that gets winded going up a flight of stairs to kiss their kids goodnight (as I did). That person who thinks they can't run to the house next door, let alone a few miles (that was me). I thought runners we selfish, egomaniac health nuts and I used to joke that I "would only run when chased."
I got motivated to try running by someone else, so I feel it part of the process to keep it going.
Here are a few things that I must share if you want to be a runner and you are lazy like me, I don't like that I am making recommendations, but bare with me:
1) The Couch to 5K program (C25K) is perfect for us. This is what it does for me: It tells me when to run and it tells me when to stop. It's a smart phone app that I downloaded to my iPhone and I can run with it and listen to my music at the same time. I like running on the track at our High School, early in the morning. Some runners like trails, some like the treadmill. Do what you like. But start with a program that outlines everything for you if you need structure.
2) Another app that you can download is the 'Charity Miles' app. You can raise money for your favorite charity with every step you take. Giving back always helps and adds to the motivational factor. You can walk, run or bike. You can run both of these apps at the same time and still listen to your music. I choose to raise money for Autism Speaks. Our autistic community gets the art of labeling, too. Boy, do they get it.
3) Align yourself with other runners. I found 'Run Luau Run' on Facebook. Like his page if you wish. That crazy bastard is going to run a 100 mile race next month. If not him, or if you are not on Facebook, find a runners forum of some kind. Preferably one that makes you smile and knows that you are a runner, too. Even if you don't think so. It matters. Thanks Luau. Seriously. And I really don't think you are a crazy bastard. Anymore.
4) Find friends or others that support you. Some will choose to just not acknowledge that you are changing your life for the better, and that is OK. But for every person that ‘likes’ your Facebook status, or congratulates you or sends you a note or message or mails you a cute runners’ t-shirt (my friend Robin actually did that!) or signs up for a 5K Mud Run with you (happening in July people!), well, soak them in. Accept their support. They really care about you. Let them.
So now, to make a long story even longer, next week I will start week 8 in the C25K program. At the end of that week I will run 3.1 miles. Yes, that's 5K. I won't be able to run it in the time recommended but I don't care. Because you see, I am running it at my pace. I am running it period. Just period.
And just so you know, Dr. Gorman, I am 44 years old and I have only moderate signs of spinal fusion. I have my two legs beneath me, decent posture, the wind in my face, a new pair of kick ass running shoes in my sights and not a single disability check in my pocket.
If you happen to see that I ran my first 5K distance within a few weeks give me a HOLLA! I would have told you 6 months ago that it was never going to be possible. Being wrong is good.
So maybe Dr. Gorman isn’t a m*!ha f&cker after all.
