Anne TootillTo Be or Not To Be a Mother -Part Three
February 22nd 2007 14:37
My breathing had gotten so bad. Or maybe I should say my lack of it. I’d wake before it was time to get up, gasping for air. Quick shallow breathes. I took the kids out in the stroller and I walked around the neighborhood so I would get a reprieve from having to constantly amuse Josh and I would struggle to take a deep breath to compensate for the unsuccessful shallow breathing in-between.
I’d been diagnosed with asthma when I was thirteen. My mother had taken me to allergists and one had put me on allergy shots that had lasted for years, but I’d never used an inhaler. At times I had found it difficult to coordinate eating and breathing. But now this not being able to breathe was out of control.
And I had all these other symptoms as well. Terrible migraines. Everything looked bright all the time. My forearms twitched. And I had these sinus infections that wouldn’t go away. I was constantly on antibiotics. I felt like I was falling apart. At one point a neurologist sent me for an MRI of the head. But thankfully all the tests came back negative. Then again if they couldn’t find anything wrong with me how was I going to make it (what apparently didn’t exist) better?
Convinced that it was all allergies my husband found this M.D who wasn’t just an allergist but who specialized in treating highly allergic people. Did I mention that my husband is the Svengali of search. People search that is. It was a gift, one which I didn’t have, so I was pretty much in awe. I later discovered that people came from lands far, far away to see this doctor.
So I made an appointment with him and was told that I had to schedule allergy testing which took place in a controlled environment (his office) over a three day period. Since my husband taking off from work was never an option, he asked one of the parents to watch the kids (they always said yes when he asked) while I had the tests done.
At thirty years old I was the youngest patient in a room of about six other people. Everyone was pleasant except one blond woman who I believe was in her forties. The woman (I’m not sure what her professional title was) conducting the testing had us go around the room and explain why each of us were there (it was a holistic approach). Almost everyone was pleasant and respectful of each other’s stories. It was obvious that everyone had been suffering for a long time with their symptoms and had gone to many other specialists and been told there was nothing really wrong with them before coming here. I was getting the impression that this doctor was a sort of doctor of last resort.
It was my turn. I listed off my symptoms and then like the others my eyes misted over as I added that sometimes I felt so sick I felt as if I were dying inside. Everyone nodded in agreement. They too had been there, felt like that. But the blonde woman who had yet to tell her tale looked at me as if I’d done her personal harm and growled, “I’ve been sick for so long how can you complain? I’m so thirsty I have to drink club soda constantly (she was chug-a-lugging from a liter bottle she’d brought with her) and they even tried removing my gallbladder to see if that helped, but it didn’t. I had unnecessary surgery because I’m so sick. You don’t look sick,” she barked at me.
I was so embarrassed. Maybe she was right. What right did I have to complain? So what if I could hardly breathe. She was right. I could tell by the way she spoke to me. She knew what she was talking about. And everyone else knew she was right too because not one person said anything in my defense. They all kind of looked away, even the woman in charge. She must have been right or they would have said something to her. Right? I felt like a complete fool. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have kept it to myself like I was supposed to.
For the next three days I sat quietly while I was tested alongside the others. At times others offered me a snack or tried to chat with me. So I put on my smile and pretended that everything was A.O.K. because I knew that’s what I was supposed to do.
I’d been diagnosed with asthma when I was thirteen. My mother had taken me to allergists and one had put me on allergy shots that had lasted for years, but I’d never used an inhaler. At times I had found it difficult to coordinate eating and breathing. But now this not being able to breathe was out of control.
And I had all these other symptoms as well. Terrible migraines. Everything looked bright all the time. My forearms twitched. And I had these sinus infections that wouldn’t go away. I was constantly on antibiotics. I felt like I was falling apart. At one point a neurologist sent me for an MRI of the head. But thankfully all the tests came back negative. Then again if they couldn’t find anything wrong with me how was I going to make it (what apparently didn’t exist) better?
Convinced that it was all allergies my husband found this M.D who wasn’t just an allergist but who specialized in treating highly allergic people. Did I mention that my husband is the Svengali of search. People search that is. It was a gift, one which I didn’t have, so I was pretty much in awe. I later discovered that people came from lands far, far away to see this doctor.
So I made an appointment with him and was told that I had to schedule allergy testing which took place in a controlled environment (his office) over a three day period. Since my husband taking off from work was never an option, he asked one of the parents to watch the kids (they always said yes when he asked) while I had the tests done.
At thirty years old I was the youngest patient in a room of about six other people. Everyone was pleasant except one blond woman who I believe was in her forties. The woman (I’m not sure what her professional title was) conducting the testing had us go around the room and explain why each of us were there (it was a holistic approach). Almost everyone was pleasant and respectful of each other’s stories. It was obvious that everyone had been suffering for a long time with their symptoms and had gone to many other specialists and been told there was nothing really wrong with them before coming here. I was getting the impression that this doctor was a sort of doctor of last resort.
It was my turn. I listed off my symptoms and then like the others my eyes misted over as I added that sometimes I felt so sick I felt as if I were dying inside. Everyone nodded in agreement. They too had been there, felt like that. But the blonde woman who had yet to tell her tale looked at me as if I’d done her personal harm and growled, “I’ve been sick for so long how can you complain? I’m so thirsty I have to drink club soda constantly (she was chug-a-lugging from a liter bottle she’d brought with her) and they even tried removing my gallbladder to see if that helped, but it didn’t. I had unnecessary surgery because I’m so sick. You don’t look sick,” she barked at me.
I was so embarrassed. Maybe she was right. What right did I have to complain? So what if I could hardly breathe. She was right. I could tell by the way she spoke to me. She knew what she was talking about. And everyone else knew she was right too because not one person said anything in my defense. They all kind of looked away, even the woman in charge. She must have been right or they would have said something to her. Right? I felt like a complete fool. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have kept it to myself like I was supposed to.
For the next three days I sat quietly while I was tested alongside the others. At times others offered me a snack or tried to chat with me. So I put on my smile and pretended that everything was A.O.K. because I knew that’s what I was supposed to do.
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