i just took off the small bandages that kept my blood from leaking out of the tiny holes in my arms down to my wrists, although my feeling is that somehow my platelets alone would have eventually have managed to stem the tide.
they are sending my blood to a lab, again. to test me for lupus, again. this is why i can't stand western medicine: this is like an exact replay of events from 6 years ago, evidence of which is still filling my chart to the brim.
based on my experiences last time, i now expect to be shuttled around from doctor to doctor, each of whom will test me for different things ("is it syphilis? is it rocky moutnain spotted fever? is it ringworm?) because what i really have time and energy for at this point it more uncertainty. and what i really want is to be poked and prodded by people who can't heal me, but only facilitate my transformation into a medical freak. "hang on, let me get so-and-so; he's got to see this!!"
speaking of anxiety, my nurse also urged me to go to a psychiatrist, i guess because it's unusual to tear up when being tested for lupus. again.
i went in today because i've been having a cough, and for someone who smoked on and off for 10 years, this may be a concern. especially for someone whose mother recently was diagnosed with emphysema, despite her status as a lifelong NON-smoker.
so i took the pulmonary functions test but when the nurse was listening to my lungs she saw the rash. THE RASH, the curse of my existence. the simple allergic reaction to milk that seems to draw doctors in like flies to honey. "ooooh!!! let's get a biopsy!!!"
so, the good news is that i don't have emphysema or asthma, the bad news is that apparently i might have lupus, again. the nurse told me as i left, "don't worry, we've only begun our dance. we'll find out what's wrong."
and i'm thinking, well, i have the prescription for allergy medication you wrote me. i imagine that will stop the coughing. all the other "problems" are a direct result of your own imagination. furthermore, i don't want to dance with you. you smell like cigarette smoke, and there's no music.
i just hate the thought of starting all this again. i really do. it was so disempowering. and scary, and frustrating. i remember thinking, well, at least at the end of this i will know what is wrong with me, but here is it six years later and i'm starting the whole fucking thing all over again.
[sigh]
i told her, "you know, i've been really stressed out lately, and i think that's why i've been depressed," when she urged me to go to the psychiatrist. "i've been writing my dissertation, i moved, i broke up with someone, i've had a lot on my mind."
"yeah," she said. "a lot of people, when they're writing their dissertations, they want something like leukemia or emphysema, because in a way it's easier to deal with than finishing the dissertation."
absurd. and 100% true.
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