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.

source

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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Comments

  1. this was so haunting and beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. wow. thank you for this

    ReplyDelete

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