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dear doctor
Aug. 28th, 2017 09:51 pmToday I had a full blown fucking freak out describing my life to my neurologist's voicemail. Last week, I called begging for refills on the prescriptions I take to lessen the pain of my near constant migraines. I explained I was out. I explained it was every day, that the pain was severe, that the new doctor can't see me until February 23, 2018, and that even though I try to take as little as possible, often I need a shot or a pill just to get out of bed, just to get past the kind of pain that makes me feel so desperate and miserable that I want to scream and cry and drill into my skull, to take a scalpel and excise the pain.
She wrote me a refill on the toradol injections, which I can only take very sparingly because of bleeding risk, and denied the refill on my Maxalt tablets because, "She just called in refills in June, and that should be enough."
I know you don't understand. I know you don't understand that I trusted you when you told me you wouldn't give up on me, and I know you don't understand how absolutely crushed I was when you did exactly that less than a year later. I know you don't understand that I have spent the last 12 years of my life trying to get someone to understand. I know you don't understand that I have been to 11 neurologists and two pain clinics, that I have seen hematologists and physical therapists and chiropractors, that I have been scanned and tested with every scan and test, that I have been on specialized diets and used ridiculous devices and oils and herbs, all for nothing. I know you don't understand that every doctor tries the exact same treatments that have never helped because that's what the literature says and that's what they know, so I have to take these medications that are nothing but side effects and wait while you figure out what I already know. I know you don't understand how much nerve blocks hurt, and that doctors keep making me take them because that's what they know. I know you don't understand how scary a spinal tap is, or how it feels to sit in an oncologist's waiting room while they check for rare blood cancers. I know you don't understand how it feels not to be believed, to pour out your soul to a stranger and beg them to help you, and then be told that you are not having as many migraines as you say you are, that you are not in as much pain as you say you are. I know you mean well not prescribing me opiates because I'm young and you're sure you can fix me, not understanding that I some days I would drink drain cleaner if I thought it would help the pain even a little bit, even for a minute. I know you don't understand that I have lost years of my life to this, that my quality of life most days is shit, that between this and my mental illness I've had to give up everything I've ever wanted, everything I've ever worked for, and live every day just trying to soldier through. I know you don't understand how hopeless it feels when a doctor tells you they can't help you. I know you don't understand that half the time I leave a doctor's appointment and have to sit in my car for 10 minutes before I stop crying so hard that I can't see to drive. I know you don't understand what 179 days with no chance of pain relief will feel like.
I know you don't understand what I'm going through. But I think you fucking should.
She wrote me a refill on the toradol injections, which I can only take very sparingly because of bleeding risk, and denied the refill on my Maxalt tablets because, "She just called in refills in June, and that should be enough."
I know you don't understand. I know you don't understand that I trusted you when you told me you wouldn't give up on me, and I know you don't understand how absolutely crushed I was when you did exactly that less than a year later. I know you don't understand that I have spent the last 12 years of my life trying to get someone to understand. I know you don't understand that I have been to 11 neurologists and two pain clinics, that I have seen hematologists and physical therapists and chiropractors, that I have been scanned and tested with every scan and test, that I have been on specialized diets and used ridiculous devices and oils and herbs, all for nothing. I know you don't understand that every doctor tries the exact same treatments that have never helped because that's what the literature says and that's what they know, so I have to take these medications that are nothing but side effects and wait while you figure out what I already know. I know you don't understand how much nerve blocks hurt, and that doctors keep making me take them because that's what they know. I know you don't understand how scary a spinal tap is, or how it feels to sit in an oncologist's waiting room while they check for rare blood cancers. I know you don't understand how it feels not to be believed, to pour out your soul to a stranger and beg them to help you, and then be told that you are not having as many migraines as you say you are, that you are not in as much pain as you say you are. I know you mean well not prescribing me opiates because I'm young and you're sure you can fix me, not understanding that I some days I would drink drain cleaner if I thought it would help the pain even a little bit, even for a minute. I know you don't understand that I have lost years of my life to this, that my quality of life most days is shit, that between this and my mental illness I've had to give up everything I've ever wanted, everything I've ever worked for, and live every day just trying to soldier through. I know you don't understand how hopeless it feels when a doctor tells you they can't help you. I know you don't understand that half the time I leave a doctor's appointment and have to sit in my car for 10 minutes before I stop crying so hard that I can't see to drive. I know you don't understand what 179 days with no chance of pain relief will feel like.
I know you don't understand what I'm going through. But I think you fucking should.
