what they don't tell you in doctors' offices

they'll never tell you that

half the time they don't know

what they're doing.

"that's odd," they'll say

and send you to another doctor

who will tell you the

exact same thing.

they want to help

but sometimes its easier to be puzzled than to care.

it's not their fault.

really.

people are supposed to work a certain way

and you're the abnormal one out of a hundred.

but they don't tell you how

exhausting

it is

to wander from office to office

waiting room to waiting room

wondering if this one will be

the one.

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they'll never tell you

how easy it is to treat the symptoms

and not the cause.

"it's working!"

and yes, it is,

but

in a few weeks, months, years

when your body figures a way around

whatever temporary fix

with which

they've overloaded your systems

they'll be back at square one.

or maybe worse.

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they'll never tell you

that sometimes you never find

a name for the fever in your bones.

sometimes they just slap a title on the pain

declare it so

but they don't really know why.

you keep waiting for the answer

and the waiting keeps you

up at night

and sometimes

you give up.

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they'll never tell you

what it's like

to forget your own sibling's name

your own name

for just a half second.

that terror

that confusion

they have no idea

what it's like

to lose your words and never get them back.

and honestly?

I wouldn't wish it on

anyone

even them.

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they never told me

that my illness would be my biggest trauma.

more than the toxic friendships.

more than the anxiety

more than the depression

I'm utterly terrified

scared hot and cold that someday

I'll wake up and

everything will hurt like it did

before.

I don't know how I'll handle that

I can't handle that.

post traumatic stress

is for the soldiers the raped the abused

not for the unhealthy.

so then why do I feel like this,

doctor? why?

(he doesn't know)

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they never told me

that I would be one of the lucky ones.

not because my body is currently in

remission.

('you don't have cancer

don't say you're in remission'

shut up Susan

cancer is a chronic illness too).

not because I found the medication

that works for me.

not because I've accepted that

I will never entirely be

what I was before.

but because I was even diagnosed at all.

"you're so lucky to have a diagnosis

at your age!"

says the wife of a husband

who spent ten years fighting

for answers.

"you're so lucky they found out what was wrong!"

says the nurse practitioner who

doesn't know how to treat me for a simple injury

because I'm a 'special case.'

"you're so lucky"

says my brain at night as I struggle with the deep dark hole in my chest

that being sick left

behind.

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yes.

I am lucky.

my body is a battered vessel still slowly finding its way to healing.

I swallow a pill every night that eases the pain that is still

harbored

deep within my bones

that presses against my skin

right now

hot to the touch.

a sliver of time, compared to some, brought me here. a fraction of an eternity.

and yet, every hour filled with

that pain that exhaustion that hopelessness

is an eternity.

I am a lucky one, despite the odds.

but they never tell me what that means.

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