Wherein I Admit That I Was Wrong
So if you’ve been hanging around here for any length of time at all, I know you’ve picked up on the fact that the thing I pretty much hate most in the entire world is BEING WRONG. Which is preceded only by the act of HAVING TO ADMIT THAT I WAS WRONG. (In which case you might be asking yourself why I’ve chosen to announce that fact here, online, in front of God and everyone, the answer being that, if I have to be wrong, then by God, I should at least get a good blog post out of it.)
The Wrongness in question here has to do with a recommendation from my fibro doctor which I have been VEHEMENTLY rejecting ever since I first set foot in his office almost three years ago. I’ve done pretty much everything else he’s suggested, but every single time This Other Thing comes up I see a red flag, lower my head, and try to gore it to death. And so every single time I go in for an appointment, we have the exact same conversation. We really don’t even have to talk in person anymore; I could just type up the script and send it in to him. It goes like this:
Fibro Dr.: “So how have you been feeling?”
Me: “I’ve been having a lot of pain lately.”
Fibro Dr.: “What have you been taking for it?”
I tell him.
Fibro Dr.: “Have you tried taking any anti-inflammatories?”
Fibro Dr.: “Why not?”
Me: “Because they don’t work.”
Fibro Dr.: “How do you know?”
Me: “Because for the year before I came to see you when they didn’t know what was wrong with me, they had me on 800 mg of Ibuprofen. And it didn’t do anything.”
Now that is true. But normally I am totally open to trying a whole bunch of different things to find one that helps me, because I believe that eventually, something will. But for some reason I just interpreted that one medicine’s not working to mean that NO medicine of that kind would EVER work for me. Who knows why.
Maybe Ibuprofen was an easy target for my rage and frustration at all the things that got my hopes up and then let me down, all the things that gave me absolutely no relief.
Or maybe I just kept thinking that “it doesn’t work” thought over and over and over so many times that it solidified into a solid, concrete barrier in my mind.
Or maybe I just like being pissy sometimes. Who knows.
I mean, it’s not as if we were having this kind of conversation:
Fibro Dr.: “Hi. I’d like to drive this metal spike through your earlobe.”
Me: “SUCK IT.”
in which case my response could be considered an appropriate one.
But no, we’ve basically been having this conversation:
Fibro Dr.: “Hi. I’d like for you to try out a medication that is going to be a lot easier on your body, is not narcotic, does not have addictive tendencies, will help you feel a lot better, and will help you regain some quality of life.”
Me: “SUCK IT.”
Oy. Apparently it has been more important for me to believe that I was right, than to admit even the merest breath of possibility that I could be wrong, which would then begin to open up the possibility of finding something that might actually bring me some relief.
So I went to see him again last week, and we did our same little dance. But this time was a little different, because my husband was there with me-because I have finally admitted that I cannot be both the patient and the advocate-which was a good thing, because he hasn’t given up on anything, and is constantly expecting us to find something that will really help treat this fibromyalgia.
So his conversation with the doctor about anti-inflammatories was completely different than all of mine (read: “open minded”), and what with one thing and another I ended up taking home a sample of a prescription strength anti-inflammatory drug. But the truly miraculous thing about this whole situation was that the next day when I started burning, I actually opened that package and took some of the medication.
I’m sure you know where this story is going: The medicine worked. It. Actually. Worked. Now, it COMPLETELY BROKE all the rest of me, to the point where I had such a bad reaction that I ended up having to lie ramrod straight, motionless, for hours on the bed, and had to call my husband and ask him to PLEASE COME HOME FROM WORK RIGHT NOW PLEASE!, but, despite all of my belief to the contrary, I knew I had just experienced something phenomenal (if excruciatingly painful in other ways): I had just experienced an anti-inflammatory relieving some of my incessant fibromyalgia pain.
So, I don’t know if he’ll ever read this or not, but if he does, then,
Dear My Fibro Doctor: You were right. And I was wrong.
Next time I’ll try to leave the female donkey at home.
ETA: Um, apparently I left out some important details of this story.
1. I was given prescription strength Naproxen w/something to protect my stomach. Now I just take over-the-counter-Aleve, and it is working just fine.
2. It broke me=-incapacitating stomach cramps and nausea. For a while I couldn’t even keep water down. Never had that happen to me before, not even w/C DIFF or my gallbladder surgery or ANYTHING. That was really scary.