I woke up, did Head and Shoulders Knees and Toes, and washed my morning meds down with a large glass of water. Then I gulped a protein shake. And then I climbed back in bed and began writing this blog post on my phone. (That’s how you know I’m exhausted, because I hate writing on my phone.)
It was something like -2°F last I looked. A life-long fan of winter, I’ve noticed a change this season. I’ve been sick of winter since December 26. I need sunshine and warm air on my cheeks, even though two-thirds of the meds I’m on make me photosensitive and come with warnings: “avoid direct sunlight or perish.”
Or something like that.
I’m anxious in the anxiety way (as opposed to the weird “looking forward to something” way people use the word where I’m originally from). We’re heading to St. Louis this afternoon for a day full of shopping and sightseeing tomorrow.
Did I say sightseeing? I meant tests and doctors. Silly me. Starting at 7:45, which means leaving the folks’ house an hour early to drive into the city and park and allow me time to hobble to the hospital MRIs. (The Center for Advanced Medicine MRIs are closer, but were all booked up. Ugh.)
Anyway, about my anxiety. I haven’t been doing so well lately. A lot of time in bed. A lot.
I’m finally off the dexamethasone, and have been for two weeks, but I can barely walk I’m so weak. And the pinchy pain that keeps nagging me? I think it’s swollen lymph nodes, based on location. My guess for cause would be rebound swelling after being on the dex for so long and then quitting. But honestly I have no fucking idea what the cause is. I know I hurt. I know I’m tired.
And that brings me to the source of my anxiety: I don’t have good things to tell the doctor. See, chronically sick people dread telling their doctors that things aren’t good or improving or at least not getting worse.
Spending years in the fucked up US medical system with a horrible doctor or three conditions patients that it’s on us to feel better whether we do or not. It’s so traumatizing that, even when the bad doctors have all been fired and there are only good ones left, we still feel responsible for not getting better.
“But Emily, you have a brain tumor. Your doctors totally get it,” is something I sometimes tell myself. But I suspect it’s something like a veteran saying to herself, “It’s OK. You’re home now. Fireworks are fine.”