Depression is more than a Hashtag

9
Mar

I’ve gotten to know Kate a bit through a shared online writing group. She’s basically amazing. Ask her about her stage makeup (is that what you call it when you can transform yourself completely with makeup?) or about her taste in fairy wings and you’ll get an answer from an expert. I asked her to share today about her depression, because if you look only at her social media photos, you’d have no idea she ever feels anything but jaw-droppingly put together. And I think that’s the way certain health elements can be — hard to sympathize with because a person is able to get through a day or may show few outward signs of distress. But we on the outside have no idea what it took for that person to do what had to be done.

Here’s Kate’s post, and please help her know her voice is important by showering her with glitter and love in the comments.

http://mrg.bz/e84IRn

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I turned my depression into a hashtag.

Because “real” depressed people prove how depressed they are by advertising it on the internet for all to see and scrutinize. Ahem. Just kidding.

Actually… I did do it for the sake of visibility. By definition, a mental illness originates in your brain. And because, like most humans, I keep my brain stored between my ears, it’s hard to know what depression looks like. It’s like bronchitis; I can’t see the tiny cactus spines growing in my lungs, but I feel them trying to claw their way out of my chest like a baby xenomorph.

Depression is like a metaphor wrapped in a cliche cultural reference.

The way people view depression is through the lens of popular culture, which hasn’t been especially kind or empathetic about it. Portrayals range from demented invisible rabbit hallucinations, to montages of tween girls sitting in their pajamas, staring out the window. Granted, the latter is more relatable to the truth about depression, but it isn’t the only truth. I still have good days, even when I’m fighting depression. I still leave the house, I still eat meals, I still talk to people. Depression just makes all of those things extremely difficult. That isn’t hyperbole; I have to talk myself into following a routine, despite feeling like the saddest doll in the doldrums — or I wind up feeling like I am actually losing it. Like… I’m not even remotely in control of my body or brain. This we will call the “danger zone”. We do not go to the “danger zone”, for it is dark and full of terrors.

But despite running a blog dedicated to Anxiety and Depression advocacy and awareness, I don’t find myself able to talk about depression as readily as a seasonal malady. It’s too difficult to make people understand; it’s not just being sad all the time. It’s just as painful as have a physical illness–sometimes more so. Which makes people super uncomfortable, like they don’t want to talk about me having a problem in my brain because that idea is just gross. …and yet, on Facebook, people talk about the color of their mucus and how many times they’ve thrown up.

Excuse me! Gross! You’ll talk about bodily fluids, but you won’t even listen to me talk about pain that you can’t even see?

I have lost friendships over depression. But, despite the temptation, I have never disowned a friend for having pneumonia. Why is this disconnect between discussing physical vs. mental illness so very rift-like?

It makes me want to vomit. So… I turned my depression into a hashtag of my own invention: #7daysoflight

I committed to one week of total transparency about my depression–but I advertised it as a beauty campaign (because remember, people think depression is icky). I pledged to spend one week posting one photo a day of myself in an outfit, complete with hair and makeup. Naturally, there are people who do this every day of their life, and I applaud them for it.

When my depression is at its worst, the thought of putting on makeup is frankly just impossible, let alone curling my hair and picking out clothes that actually match and aren’t made of Lycra.

I feel better when I am in full regalia, however, so it made sense to me that spending one week keeping myself together physically might help me mentally. And help me be SEEN for once.

It did help me feel better. It also didn’t. The thought of having more to do in the mornings was stressful, which meant starting my day already frustrated. It meant pulling myself out of bed and climbing a hill made of lipstick tubes and bronzer and fake eyelashes–for a picture. To put on the internet.

Did it help people really see me, though? Not as far as I can tell. Because I didn’t make it a conversation. I made a gallery of seven photos, each showing a day of triumph, which was very visible to me–but I never talked about how I had championed my depression each day. I just posted seven versions of my face looking more put together than usual.

What does a depressed person even look like?

I don’t really talk about having bad days on Facebook in general, and I curate my image so carefully on social media that there aren’t even any candid photos of me, really, unless they were approved before someone posted them. Because never do I want to appear as anything other than this carefully woven basket-case. People know I’m “a mess”, but if you look at my profile, it’s unclear if I’m messy because I’m constantly painting, or because I have assumed the cliche title as compliment bait.

And admittedly, I like attention. In certain controlled situations, the likes of which I have created with my own cunning. But I’m an Introvert as well as depressed and anxious, so I don’t actually like baring my real problems.

That’s where we have a huge problem with mental illness visibility in the first place: the people who suffer do not want to even attempt to be seen, because people without mental illness do not want to talk about it. That’s what it feels like. So we don’t speak up about what it’s really like to be prisoner to your own body. So the stigma holds, and we hear people called “crazy” because the victims are invisible.

I have a confession to make: I cheated at my own challenge. I took a day off of the internet. I sat around in the comfiest clothing I own, and I went nowhere near social media. And the next day, I posted two photos: one I claimed was from my internet-free day, and one from that day. The internet-free day photo was actually from several weeks ago. I wanted to be invisible.

But what I am and was feeling over those seven days? Several things, on and off. Most days, even when I’m doing pretty well, my hands just ache a little bit. I’m prone to small headaches, but I combat it with lots of stretching and drinking water constantly.

And when it’s bad?

Joints aching so badly that my hands are nearly numb

A headache so terrible that my body starts to try to put me to sleep

Stomach pains and a severely disrupted digestive system, which makes me wary of all food and not want to stand or walk

Mood swings, which leave me angry or upset about absolutely nothing (or ten times more reactive to small things)

Inability to focus on any one task

Insomnia

My hair falls out in clumps
Heightened paranoia and dastardly intrusive thoughts
Night terrors
Little or no enjoyment of things I normally like
Difficulty driving
Panic attacks, which leave me short of breath and hyper-aware of possible triggers

The list goes on… and that’s just what depression does to me, nevermind all the symptoms of anxiety that I experience on a particularly rough day.

Yeah. It’s gross. To live it.

But despite being frustrated that sometimes I am very sick, I’m really not ashamed of it. Because there is no room for shame in my body when all that other stuff has taken hold. I’ve failed myself in only one instance lately, in this seven day challenge: I didn’t allow myself to be visible. To turn a phrase, I advertised the armor instead of the war.

I spend so much time listening to my body and validating my own feelings, and yet I didn’t extend myself that courtesy at a prime opportunity. So now, my depression is still invisible, and I have seven pictures of myself looking put-together, no different than the tons of selfies I take on a regular basis (I’m team selfie — if you feel good about yourself, there’s no good reason not to share that with others!).

The truth about becoming visible is that I have to overcome my fear of appearing broken. Sometimes I am broken, and sometimes I just want to tell people that I’m not doing very well, but that I’m working on it and not to worry.

In order to de-stigmatize talking about mental illness, I can’t rely on other people to see the truth behind the projected image. I have to change my language to a format the general masses can understand (and it has nothing to do with bodily fluids).

So here’s what I am today: not broken, small headache, and out of all the joints in my body, only my fingers are aching. Outfit? Lycra pajamas–but they’re matching. No makeup, no intrusive thoughts. Hopeful, overwhelmed, but putting my energy towards letting go of today’s fears and embracing the gifts of the day.

See? That wasn’t so bad.

Bio: Kate is a Portland-based writer, artist and mental health advocate. She is appreciative of Jane Austen, a coffee snob, and a lover of Young Adult fiction. Visit her at thehonestbrain.wordpress.com for more information about her journey to better mental health, as well as testimonies from other mental health champions.

What school doesn’t teach You

2
Mar

Today’s post is from an up-and-coming writer in the medical field. She happens to be my sister, so you know she’s a good egg. (I’ve always wanted to call her an egg.) She shares about the most difficult season our family has gone through (and is still going through…very…very…slowly…) and writes about it from her medical perspective. I know you’ll find it interesting. Show her some comment-love today, will you?

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http://mrg.bz/PdGn03

Going to PA school is a full-time job. There are hours and hours of lectures that cover every body system and every possible thing that could go wrong. At times you start to believe that you have that rare genetic disorder that consists of frequent leg twitching and abnormal knuckle hair. Or maybe the lecturer covered abnormal moles and suddenly all of your “beauty marks” look like melanoma. At some point during the didactic year, you have to just ignore all the bad things that you might develop in your life or else you might become paralyzed. Just continue to drink from the fire hose and make it out alive to start practicing medicine. One thing that PA school did not prepare me for was family illness. There was not a single lecture entitled “How to Stand By a Loved One Who Gets Sick”, or “How to Walk Gracefully Along Side a Parent Who is Diagnosed With Cancer”.

My sister called me one evening last September and asked me to go look at my Dad’s leg. I made the short drive and noted that his right leg was twice the size of his left.

“How long has it been like that, Dad?”

“Just three days.”

“Who told you to wait three days?”

“Dr. Downing!”

My Dad was not, in fact, a medical doctor. Among other degrees, he got a PhD in Theology and was a pastor of a church before retiring a few years ago. I directed my Dad to go immediately to the ER because I was worried he had a DVT, or blood clot, in his leg. A DVT was diagnosed and he actually had a large clot that extended from his ankle to his thigh. I wanted to be wrong.

A couple months later he was visiting a freshly hatched grandchild and became short of breath. My parents drove to the hospital and the doctors there found a showering of emboli or blood clots in the lungs. They also found a mass.

“We’re not sure what it is yet. I think I just swallowed a ping-pong ball!”

“Dad, this doesn’t sound good.”

“We are preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best.”

I tried to do just that. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. But in my mind I just kept thinking about stages. Cancer stages.

My dad was quickly diagnosed with lung cancer. I wanted to be wrong. They saw a “hot spot” when they did the initial scans and wanted to do a bone biopsy. On the way down to get the biopsy my dad started have trouble finding words. My mom made a detour and took dad to the ER and they diagnosed him with a stroke. Because they made it to the ER quickly, they were able to receive TPA, also known as clot-busting medication. He was admitted to the hospital and my brothers, sister, and I drove to see him. My dad continued to be in good spirits, and felt lucky that they had made it in time to get TPA.

“I had meat soap, meat soap….Kath, what did I have for dinner?”

“Meat Loaf, Gary!” my mom said.

We all circled my dad, laid across his chest, and prayed. Please, God, make this go away.

A couple of days later I received a call that Dad was doing worse. I immediately thought that the stroke converted to a hemorrhagic, or bleeding, type of stroke. I wanted to be wrong. I walked into the hospital room and my mom gripped my neck. My dad had a hard time speaking, and he couldn’t open his eyes because the hemorrhagic stroke affected his equilibrium. I slept over that night next to him and I heard him whispering the names of his grandchildren. I knew that this scenario was not good.

My dad was fighting stage 4 lung cancer, and the stroke had weakened him significantly. The great 6′ 2″ giant, was a little hunched and his long gait was reduced to shuffling. But he and my mom still managed to travel to Costa Rica that winter. My dad would get his chemo, wait a day, fly down to Costa Rica for 3 weeks, and return in time for another run. He regained his strength and he boasted that he was able to do his daily walk and push ups. He told me that when he was in the hospital after the stroke he felt helpless, but never hopeless. He continued to fight the cancer with chemo, sunshine, changed his diet and began eating as a vegetarian.

My dad fooled us all. He convinced us that he was feeling really well. So well, that he wanted to go to Costa Rica alone, without my mom. But we found out that the chemo wasn’t touching the cancer and that they would see if he would be a candidate for a clinical trial. I wasn’t comforted by the news. On the way home from Costa Rica, my dad got really, really sick. He fell down the escalator in the airport. He was confused and lost his passport. How he got home, we will never know. God didn’t take away his cancer, but one of his angels brought my dad home safely. Even in his confusion, he was thoughtful enough to buy one of his grandkids a breakfast sandwich. He had it in his pocket for two days.

When we heard of these events, I already knew the cancer had taken his brain. I tried to hope for the best, I did. But my training wouldn’t allow me to ignore the facts. They found mets to the brain and he was no longer eligible for the clinical trial. They would start radiation, and this was only to help with symptoms. This was not a cure.

How do you stand by a loved one when they are sick? You go with them to doctors appointments. I went with my parents to chemo and radiation appointments. I argued with the doctors. I brought with me articles about possible alternative treatments for my dad’s cancer.

Sometimes the only way we feel like we have some sort of control over the situation is to study it. I spent down time at work looking up articles about lung cancer treatments and ways to combat side effects of chemo. And when you finally realize that knowledge is not going to save your dad, you cry with him. And when your mother no longer can handle injecting him with blood thinners, you go there every night and do it for her. And when he is ready to let go, you be there to hold his hand.

How do you walk gracefully alongside your parent who is diagnosed with cancer? You do exactly as my dad said. You hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The graceful part is tricky. No one does it perfectly. Just hold each other up and do cancer together. It’s the only way to survive the diagnosis. This is something school just can’t teach you, and there is no way to prepare for tragedy. And sometimes no matter how much you know, it won’t change the outcome. Sometimes its better to be a friend, a partner, a daughter than it is to be a PA.

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I am a PA with a family. Currently, I work in a busy ER and juggle my career, my husband, and my three children. My blog is to help prepare students, discuss medical topics and the PA profession as a whole. I write a column for PAs Connect entitled The PA Mama . I coach pre-PAs and help them get into school. You can find me on Facebook at PA Trek. Please feel free to contact me at pachustle@gmail.com or Follow me on Twitter.

JDRF One Walk: We’re not Alone

23
Feb

The alarm went off at 5:30a as the coffee pot started brewing in the kitchen. We had estimated how long the kids would need to wake up at such an early hour, to what degree their slow-motion sleepiness would affect their ability to get ready. We considered how hungry (or not) they’d be at that early hour and how we’d account for an insulin dose based on the lack of appetite. We quietly opened curtains — it didn’t let in any light since it was still dark across the Minnesota landscape — and moved around in the kids’ rooms in order to get them to wake up slowly. It would take us at least 30 minutes to drive to the Mall of America and we’ve never been a hop-in-the-car-and-go kind of family; we take a while to get ourselves collected and out the door.

As we drove and our people started waking up, the excitement began to build. When we pulled up the turn light and saw the line of cars heading into the parking lot, it looked like a deal-driven Black Friday event. Why else would people be out in the cold morning before the stores opened at the mall?

There was no way we’d be out this early or driving to the Mall of America of all places except for this event. It was Saturday, February 21, and it was our first Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) One Walk fundraiser.

When we heard about the One Walk, we immediately knew it was something we’d put on our calendar. We were drawn to the idea of doing something to hasten the development of better solutions and even a cure for diabetes. Maybe it’s grasping at straws, but since I’m not a scientist nor a lobbyist, this felt like something we could all actively be a part of.

We’ve only had diabetes for two months, and I say WE because it truly is a diagnosis that impacts the entire family. We’ve come through the initial shock and how we’re learning how diabetes is becoming a silent member of the family, something we have to factor into all our events and happenings. I wish I could say we’re used to it by now, but we’re not. We will be one day, but we’re not there yet.

2015

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Our team’s dominant color was purple, and team members did it up right: a purple scarf, a purple stripe on the arm, purple shirts, purple shorts, a baby in a purple headband, one friend with one purple leg-warmer and matching sock (the location of her other purple leg-warmer remains a mystery), and purple lanyards for each member of our team. They were all there bright and early, each with a positive attitude and a desire to show their solidarity with our family. They helped remind us that we are not alone in dealing with diabetes — their care and love for our family will help us in those moments when it all feels too big to handle.

The atmosphere was festive and the hallways were packed with people. It was moving to see the matching t-shirts and various groups all present to show their support for a loved one with Type 1 diabetes. It was pretty overwhelming, and we’re still processing all that we experienced that day.

We raised over $800, which was $300 more than our goal. We were so encouraged by people’s desire to contribute and be a part of finding new and better ways to deal with diabetes.

If you were a part of that day, thank you. Seriously. Thank you. And if you weren’t, you may get a chance in the future and I’d encourage you to go for it. Look out for us in the spring of 2016 and plan on seeing these again, ’cause how do you use up 100 purple lanyards in a year? You don’t.

Have a Lanyard…Please

Have you participated in a large-scale fundraiser? How do you respond to the energy surrounding such events? How do you think they contribute towards positive change?

Medical Ministers and Presidents

16
Feb

Today’s Medical Monday post is written by someone who is very familiar with the medical world, both conventional Western and alternative. Read his perspective on the power of the White Coat and the differences between what he refers to as prime ministers and presidents.

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Going back as far as I can remember, the White Coat of the medical professional has been the symbol of the reasonable, knowledgeable expert on our health and physical condition.

When I was a boy, the esteem we gave the White Coat was substantial and broad. As a matter of fact, even in my monthly trip to the barbershop on Saturday mornings as a child, there would be a row of hair experts in white smocks, looking every bit like an elite corps of trained medical specialists in the smoke-filled, male-dominated strip mall just a couple of doors down from the Ben Franklin five-and-dime.

Memories of great apprehension still surround me as I recall those winters when I would return perhaps six times in four months to receive the dreaded penicillin injection. After anxious moments in the waiting room, a serious-minded man would come in, look sternly at me, mumble something in hushed tones to my mother, and before long the nurse, always a friendly woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile would execute the will of the all-knowing, fearless expert in the White Coat.

Over the years, a widening gap has developed between me and the White Coat. I can think of a number of reasons for this, but as a chronic sufferer who knows only too well why they call us “patients,” I can name one of the big ones. Go back in time with me to a movie I hope you have seen more than once.

The character’s name is Winifred Banks, a “suffragette” working for women’s right to vote. To a rousing tune, she and her fellow-crusaders march around the room and sing, “We’re clearly soldiers in petticoats; Dauntless crusaders for women’s votes. Though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they’re rather stupid….”

Now, I assure you, I think highly of most of my many doctors, but the good will does not carry over to the coat (“as a group”…you see). My uneducated guess is that what has happened to them can happen to all of us when politics, custom and other outside forces restrict the way we do our jobs and perform our role in society: we become less effective as a group than we are as individuals. (By the way, the movie mentioned above was Mary Poppins.)

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Why is it that some countries have Prime Ministers (people who minister), others have Presidents (people who preside), and some have both? Ministers are the people that impress me most. (I think Prime Minister Thatcher of Great Britain was the first person I remember quoting the proverb, “If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman.” Spoken like a true PM!) That is because long after the presider has snagged, bagged and tagged my medical problem, the minister (nurse, PA, and even a low-level, non-technical administrator) still takes my calls and emails.

As a sufferer from numerous chronic diseases, I have learned to be affable, organized and intelligent in talking to presidents so that their memories of me are vivid, pleasant and undemanding. I do this in hopes that they feel good thinking about me because I suspect that once they have stopped looking at me, I wonder whether they will be thinking of me five minutes from now.

I am overstating the whole thing, of course, but it is unfortunate that they must hustle between patients and I am left with only one shot to think of and ask everything I could wish to know before the next billable encounter.

“Doctor, I nearly fainted today, what should I do? What might it be? Did I just experience an ‘off time’ from the Parkinson’s disease or is it the meds? Can we go out for coffee and have you educate me on how to self-diagnose and what I might anticipate my life to be like now?”

Dialogue about such things is what I crave with my doctors. I wish I could get his or her attention whenever I need it. But who among us has the stamina to treat hundreds of patients with this kind of tender loving care? I understand why it must be that way. I still hate it when something reminds me that life isn’t fair or simple.

There are so many good medical professionals in my world. They make me feel like living when I feel like dying. They don’t have the averted eyes, the somber look or the well-worn words: “Not saying you are imagining things, but the source of your problem is that your mind/brain is making you sick. So I can only treat you for fibromyalgia. Take this for pain and check back next year [read: Please don’t check back until next year because I really don’t know what’s going on with you.]”

No, these solid professionals say things like, “I will stick with you. Are you okay?” Most are good folks who know the old ways of western medicine that I need most when my house is on fire (i.e. things are desperate.)

And then there are the non-mainstreamed variety like the one who said, “Don’t mind those other doctors. You have Chronic Lyme disease. That is not on the public health radar yet. I’ve got your back. Let’s get busy and see what happens.” His treatment worked. Another has said, “I can save you from getting that knee replacement through a relatively inexpensive procedure that insurance won’t cover. Can I pray with you?” Then he proceeded successfully to repair the knee.

All of these people remind me that goodness and decency are far from obsolete. They do take emails and return calls. Some even leave me their cell phone number. Good things do happen. I just wish the White Coat was the uniform for all of those Prime Ministers and innovators too, and that it really did represent all of the best practices and personal attention available today.

All the best, Dear TC.

Uncle Wes

http://mrg.bz/QUhmjX

Navigating the ER

2
Feb

Welcome to our first Medical Monday, one day each week when we try to address the world of health, wellness and medicine. This will be a time when we hear from guest writers about their experiences in these areas, some of which will be on different ends of the spectrum medically. I may chime in occasionally as well. We’re going to do this for a while, so if you’d like to contribute your voice to the conversation in the form of a guest post, feel free to send me an email to get more details.

Some people who will write here are providers, some are recipients. The goal is to offer space to hear a new or different perspective, all with an appreciation of the subtleties of health and the intricate way the human body functions. It’s amazing, really, and a healthy body is not something to take for granted (simplistic example: until you’ve had a stuffy nose you don’t generally think to be thankful for the ability to breathe through both nostrils, right?).

One ground rule for this series: no matter how much your own opinion and experience might differ from that of the writer, please always be respectful in your comments and interactions. Some of the insights were hard earned, and we want to be a place of welcome and conversation. I know I don’t really need to tell any of you that, Dear Readers, because you know it instinctively. It’s just something we have to get on record for the court stenographer. (Don’t worry, there’s no stenographer sitting here in my kitchen with me…today.)

Let’s hear from our first guest contributor, who has chosen to remain anonymous.

*****

http://mrg.bz/Ek0Y2C

Recently I was sitting in an examination room with a nice middle aged man. He was expressing to me his feelings of anxiety. Just as he started talking about how it feels like the room closes in on him and he gets pains in his chest I hear something alarming drown out his voice. The overhead speaker blasts out, “Code Red! Room 10!” I excuse myself rudely, because there is no other way to do it. I leave this patient and run to the next room to help assist with CPR on a patient that will likely not make it. There is no time to feel badly about the abrupt way in which I left my other patient. My mind is focused only on chest compressions and I try to keep the rate at the correct tempo. After an hour of attempting to resuscitate, the team realizes that our efforts did not pay off this time. I get a drink of water and walk back to the room with my anxious patient. I smile and apologize for the long wait.

Have you ever gone to the Emergency Room and had to wait three hours to see a clinician? Do you ever wonder why the person who came long after you did was brought back first? What is actually going on behind those curtains? We are going to get a first hand look at the inner workings of an ER.

First of all, my credentials. I have been a PA at multiple urban ERs for 7 years, including a level 1 trauma center. What does that mean? I have seen the badest of the bad. And I love it. ER people are a strange breed. We are wild, adrenaline junky, cowgirls/boys. We are confident, and maybe a little arrogant. We work hard shifts, and we want EVERYONE to know it. But don’t be fooled by the bravado. In the end we are softies and care about our patients deeply.

I hope that you never have to come to the ER, but statistics tell us that at some point your evening plans will include me and my team. Here are some pointers to help you get through your experience and help you understand what is going on in the ER.

First of all, if you are coming because of a life or limb threatening event, you are our number one priority. We will drop everything and literally run to keep you alive. I have walked out of a room mid sentence because I overheard a code being called. A code basically is a cardiac, respiratory, or neurological emergency. It means someone’s heart, lungs or brain aren’t working properly. We move fast because time is our biggest enemy.

I know that it is frustrating to wait, but on the other hand, it means you aren’t dying. If you are stable, there are often long wait times. If it seems like there aren’t a lot of people in the waiting room and you wonder why it is taking so long, there are ambulances coming in where you can’t see them. If someone comes in after you but they get called back first, it is because some kind of badness is going on. Please don’t harass the triage nurses. They get so much abuse from people that are annoyed with the wait time. They are stressed out and frustrated that they can’t help you more quickly. And they might bite your head off if you are sassy to them.

Please remember you are your best advocate. If you feel that something bad is going on don’t be afraid to go up and ask for help. People that work in the ER do make mistakes. I’m gonna go ahead and say it. We are not perfect and you need to follow your gut. They may think you have something simple….you may know that something is not normal or going very wrong.

Once you get into an examination room, there may be another wait. Please rest assured that we know you are there. Having a new patient on the board waiting to be seen is uncomfortable for all of us. We see that little blip on our computer screen and it drives us crazy. But if there is a sicker patient, they get evaluated first. While you are in your room, we are putting in orders, reviewing charts, going over results, putting on splints, reducing dislocated joints, suturing, putting breathing tubes in, stabilizing patients. The thing about the ER is that it is unpredictable. Sometimes there is absolutely nothing going on (we never say “slow” in the ER…bad luck). Other times we just don’t stop moving. One thing I know is that just because we aren’t in your room, it does not mean we forgot about you. We are thinking about what the next step is. We are reviewing your past medical history. We are thinking about compassionate ways to tell you bad news.

Here is my last point. No matter how awesome I think the ER is, the people in it are not perfect. We miss things. We judge situations wrongly. If you feel that something isn’t right, don’t be afraid to speak up and ask questions. If you still feel that something was missed, ask to speak to another practitioner. We may be egomaniacs, but in the end we do want the best for our patients.

A new series: Medical Mondays

28
Jan

This may be something obvious to the fully-actualized adults around me, but a new thought dawned on me the other day: the older we get the more chance there is that we will interact with a health issue. Be it our own or in the health of someone we love, the longer we walk around alive, the longer we have to experience something going haywire.

Pretty obvious, huh?

You’d think so, but up until the past few years, there have been relatively few instances of health issues in my family or in most of my friends. And with that, many of you are saying, “Go on, tell us how it is, Ms. Exempt-from-the-real-world.” Yeah, I know. It’s obnoxious. But it was just the way things were, just as for many of you, the day-to-day reality of a chronic condition or a diagnosis is just the way it is. You don’t get to decline, graciously or otherwise. It’s more than an occasional trip to the sick-child hours at your doctor’s office or the minute clinic in the back corner of your big box store. It’s research, support groups, more research, fundraisers, awareness-raising, advocating, and navigating the world of healthcare.

Some of you are on the provider end of the spectrum. You’re the ones who take the late night phone calls, or respond first when other people run the other way. You know all about the system because you’re one of the people who provide care and solutions for the countless people who walk through the doors of your clinic, hospital, treatment center, or office.

The nuances are many and the world of health and healthcare is multifaceted. What I’m looking for are stories. Real stories of your interactions with the world of medicine and health. Mental health, physical health, mind-body connections, caregiving, miracles, you name it. The one thing is that I don’t have is a deep desire to debate health care politics or anything legislative, although for some that is a topic they hold dear because it impacts the type of care they are able to seek out or receive. So even that is up for grabs, as long as it’s in the context of your story.

Therefore…

[trumpets, please]

In what may be yet another hair-brained idea, I’ve decided to start a new series. It will run on Mondays, and it will be focused on the world of medicine: medical jobs, diagnoses, treatments, alternative medicine, and health revelations. We don’t need a defense of this or an argument for that; what we need to hear is YOUR story. How your health, and the changes in that area of your life, have impacted you or someone very close to you.

Too often, we demand that medicine be an exact science. We want answers, we want a treatment plan, and we want compassion, doggone it! It’s insanely frustrating to discover that, just as our bodies are mysterious and unique, each one different from the next, medicine can’t always perfectly find the exact answer for our exact ailment every time. There aren’t solutions for every problem, and while we know many many things about how the body works, there are just as many things we know.

Do you have a story?

Do you want to share it here?

I’m looking for contributors to this series. I’d love to open up this blog and include stories from people with varied backgrounds and experiences. If this catches your attention, and you’d like to be a part of it, please send me an email [tclarsonwrites (at) gmail (dot) com] or a personal message on the Facebook page to find out more details. Otherwise, stop back every Monday to see what happens next!