I’ve always enjoyed being around people, both at work and with friends. I also liked daily biking and sailing off and on. Then, in 1990, a neuroimmune illness hit me out of the blue. Since that time, the disease has kept me almost completely housebound and able to tolerate only brief personal contacts.
In the tiny town where I grew up, we had two pharmacies. Both pharmacists knew you, your family, and what your general medical needs were. If your car wasn’t available—common in those one-car-per-family days—they would run your medicine out to your house at their first opportunity. In an emergency, they would open the pharmacy at night.
The Times They Are A-Changin’ Read More »
My husband is an air-conditioning contractor based in southeast Florida, where A/C is needed almost the whole year round. This summer has been particularly hot—the temperatures pushing everyone’s A/C units to their limits. He comes home soaked in sweat and arrived on the border of a heat stroke one day.
Living in a Tub of Sweat Read More »
I take two medications. One is Armour Thyroid, as I can’t tolerate the usual thyroid medication. The other addresses symptoms of a neuroimmune disease I’ve had for years—allowing me to endure sound and light and stopping the minor seizures I had when I was subjected to those two things. Those meds help me, and I am grateful for them. But the problem is that I can tolerate almost no other medication that doctors have suggested.
Doctors Run When They See Me Coming Read More »
He could have been named Mr Congeniality. He was warm and friendly to people around him, always ready to do a favor. I met him when he worked a summer where I was working. His masters degree wasn’t enough to get the jobs he wanted, so he decided to apply to PhD programs. He and I became friends over the summer, and I helped him with feedback about grad schools, housing, and so on. His wife and child had stayed that summer where she had a full-time job so she could continue working.
I have a neuroimmune illness that for years was considered not to be “real” but that changed my life. On top of that, I’m unable to tolerate many medications, which have too often been prescribed for me with no consideration of what I’ve told doctors about their debilitating side effects. But about eighteen years ago, an angel entered my life in the form of a physician who did his initial training in India and then finished up in New York. I don’t know if it was his Eastern orientation that made him so patient-oriented, listening seriously when I needed his help, but he was perfect.
Back in May, after two doctor visits, a scan, X-rays and a foot MRI, it was determined that the excruciating pain beneath my left ankle was due to two cysts pressing against a nerve. My orthopedist set me up for an operation the following week to remove them.
Anesthesia would be required, so the surgery would take place in the outpatient section of a nearby hospital. The operation was scheduled for 3:30 p.m., and I was told to be there at 2 for the prep work.
I still remember the thrill when the Roe v. Wade decision was issued. In grad school, a friend had tried to abort with a coat hanger when her boyfriend dumped her and offered no support. I was always careful about contraception but knew a number of women who became pregnant even using it. I never expected to need an abortion but was grateful once I had that option.
I worked as a PhD clinical psychologist for many years and was respected for my knowledge and hard work. There were exceptions, of course: mainly from the male psychiatrists I crossed paths with. This should have prepared me for my experiences as a patient, when I saw male doctors for health issues. Not so.
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