My worst year of illness was 2017. For most of that year, I needed help standing up to pee in a bed pan that was two steps to the right of my recliner, where I lay, blinds drawn, all day, every day. Symptoms were severe, nonstop. I was routinely spoon-fed by my wife. Any noise would exacerbate my symptoms and I’d feel on the verge of dying. I’d have hypnic jerks and body shakes and experience severe retching, my vitals all over the place.
My eyes would be closed for roughly 85 percent of the day and I would have to lie completely still for hours on end because of the constant flares that felt like organ failure and as if the end was near. And, if I pushed beyond symptoms, I would crash so hard that I’d end up in the ER (which happened numerous times)—my entire face and arms going numb and vibrating fiercely, my resting heart rate exceeding 165bpm, my chest extremely tight, my stomach severely distended, a loss of bladder control, and other horrific body-wide symptoms.
That same year was the year I met my old therapist, Dr. Sanderson (they tell you to get one if you’re chronically ill), a Jungian psychologist and minister who looked like a jolly, portly Freud. He would come to my house 1-2 times per week because I was obviously too sick to go see him. Often, as I lay in the recliner unable to speak, he would perform guided meditations and, when finished, would say a lengthy prayer aloud although I’m not religious. Then he would fall silent. Sitting in a chair quietly by my side, he would sometimes tap his foot gently on the floor, or shift ever so gingerly in his seat. His calming presence was a relief for my severely symptom-riddled body, except for when his cell phone rang loudly to Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall,” which would invariably shock me in my recliner. I adored the man.
(Currently, I no longer see a therapist.)
A few weeks ago, I had a positively ridiculous but not surprising talk with my new psychiatrist. He will—thank God—act primarily as my medication prescriber. He told me, “Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is psychosomatic, studies show, and fixing your chronic fatigue is doable.”
‘Great,’ I thought.
When questioned about my youth, I told him that I was a little hyperactive as a kid. He said that I have ADHD; I agreed that that might have been the case. And so, he said, “We’re going to treat your ADHD with Adderall,” even though I reported not having experienced symptoms of hyperactivity in a long, long time.
I don’t know if was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard or if it was some sort of paradoxical magical genius attempt—trying to treat the hyperactivity I may have had as a kid (but do not have as an adult)—by a man I am now completely mystified by.
Why must these doctors vary so dramatically in their knowledge, abilities, and skill sets?
Can we have a moratorium on crappy doctors unconsciously preying on the most vulnerable of patients?
Will all the good doctors of the world please stand up—and help us, please!
My eyes would be closed for roughly 85 percent of the day and I would have to lie completely still for hours on end because of the constant flares that felt like organ failure and as if the end was near. And, if I pushed beyond symptoms, I would crash so hard that I’d end up in the ER (which happened numerous times)—my entire face and arms going numb and vibrating fiercely, my resting heart rate exceeding 165bpm, my chest extremely tight, my stomach severely distended, a loss of bladder control, and other horrific body-wide symptoms.
That same year was the year I met my old therapist, Dr. Sanderson (they tell you to get one if you’re chronically ill), a Jungian psychologist and minister who looked like a jolly, portly Freud. He would come to my house 1-2 times per week because I was obviously too sick to go see him. Often, as I lay in the recliner unable to speak, he would perform guided meditations and, when finished, would say a lengthy prayer aloud although I’m not religious. Then he would fall silent. Sitting in a chair quietly by my side, he would sometimes tap his foot gently on the floor, or shift ever so gingerly in his seat. His calming presence was a relief for my severely symptom-riddled body, except for when his cell phone rang loudly to Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall,” which would invariably shock me in my recliner. I adored the man.
(Currently, I no longer see a therapist.)
A few weeks ago, I had a positively ridiculous but not surprising talk with my new psychiatrist. He will—thank God—act primarily as my medication prescriber. He told me, “Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is psychosomatic, studies show, and fixing your chronic fatigue is doable.”
‘Great,’ I thought.
When questioned about my youth, I told him that I was a little hyperactive as a kid. He said that I have ADHD; I agreed that that might have been the case. And so, he said, “We’re going to treat your ADHD with Adderall,” even though I reported not having experienced symptoms of hyperactivity in a long, long time.
I don’t know if was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard or if it was some sort of paradoxical magical genius attempt—trying to treat the hyperactivity I may have had as a kid (but do not have as an adult)—by a man I am now completely mystified by.
Why must these doctors vary so dramatically in their knowledge, abilities, and skill sets?
Can we have a moratorium on crappy doctors unconsciously preying on the most vulnerable of patients?
Will all the good doctors of the world please stand up—and help us, please!
