Damage Control

Many of you know that I have fibromyalgia. I was diagnosed in 1993 and since then, have made it my mission to do what doctors have been unable to do – reduce my pain, improve my sleep, enhance my energy and well-being.

Yes, I take small doses of the few medications I can tolerate (and on some days I consider them a godsend), and I do have the occasional flare or stretch of rotten days, but beyond that, I’ve worked hard to optimize my health and my attitude.

I meditate (almost) daily. I do deep-breathing exercises. I sing. I get regular massages. I exercise to the extent that my body can tolerate. I’ve gone organic to the extent that my budget allows. I avoid (within reason) the foods and food additives that make my system cranky. I write my ass off, seek out opportunities to laugh my ass off. I try to have a life within the margins (and sometimes color outside the lines.)

Still, when people talk about “surviving” or even “living” with a health condition, I cringe. I want to thrive despite having a health condition. So it’s especially hurtful to me when people – especially people who are important in my life – stick labels on me, (knowingly or unknowingly) belittle me, my efforts or don’t consider the condition real. Some people still think it’s all in my head, or I’m being lazy, or I need psychological help.

And then there’s my doctor. I’ve been seeing him for nearly twenty years. At times he’s pretty brilliant. He caught my vitamin D deficiency, recommends stretching and exercise before he’ll whip out his RX pad, and he was the first one to suspect I had fibro. He keeps up with the literature, shares what he knows. So I have a lot of respect for him. We joke around. He’s human. In fact, sometimes I learn more about him in a visit than he learns about me. And he’s very impressed with me for the self-care I’ve been doing. In fact, he holds me up as an example to his other patients.

Which is why what he said to me at my last visit hurt so much. We were talking about what I should expect at my no-fault medical exam. He was flipping through my chart. “Well, because you have fibro,” he said, “you’re already damaged.”

Excuse me? Damaged? As in “damaged goods,” as in “broken?”

My stomach tightened. But I forced out a laugh. “I’m not damaged,” I told him. “At least I don’t consider myself damaged. Challenged, yes. But not damaged.”

He had no answer for me other than switching the subject to the latest thinking on fibro, which was that my nerves are more sensitive than other people’s.

And he was getting on my last nerve.

I wrote him off as just slipping into a moment of insensitivity, but as the day progressed, I found myself getting angrier and angrier. And then the tears started. I could barely explain to Husband why I was so upset about it without breaking down. I’d let the word work its way under my skin. Words can be sticky that way. I can bob and weave and deflect, but that word was just, well, damaging.

I started feeling defective. I’ve been trying to shake it off, but at times it comes back at me with a whammy punch.

I’ll most likely recover from this, and find my equilibrium again. But right now it stings.