And this is why I blog about it: My friends ask about it and still love me.
My physician called me to go over the list of questions that the disability lawyer sent her, and we answered them together, and yeah, it's bad. I don't know what else the SSDI people will want, but I think between all this documentation, I'll appear intensely miserable, mostly incompetent, and screwed up on a daily basis, which is just the truth. I mean, sometimes walking five minutes to and from the mailbox or bus stop leaves me dizzy and achy on most days, and that is sad.
She wrote so many "[patient can barely do this]" and "[patient cannot do that at all]" and "[patient can only do that for so long]" and "[patient needs an unnatural amount of rest]" answers that it seemed like every single answer translated to "Patient is a debilitated mess." Even the questions about emotional and mental competence were negative. My memory blanks out too much, I often stammer and slur while speaking, I lose words too often, and I am in tears almost all the time wishing it wasn't my life.
(It's the losing words that hurts the most; I find myself resorting to Buffyspeak via TV Tropes too often. It's getting to the point where I almost hyperventilate when I forget the proper words, especially because I've always been a natural writer. While we were speaking, I found myself pausing, stumbling over my tongue, physically struggling for words that were so easy.
And people look at me and see nothing wrong, just a tired pale girl who limps and twitches a lot and looks like she hurts but probably doesn't because she seems fine even when she has a cane. But my doctor knows to look deeper; every time we see each other her eyes immediately fill with sympathy.)
My doctor called me "Sweetheart" and "Dear" and wished me a good weekend despite the migraine, and she told me that I was one of her dearest patients and she really wished she could do everything to help me; and her compassion and made me choke up a little. Having your primary care doctor love you and want to help you as much as possible... I feel like it is so rare.
It is actually one hundred degrees outside. That is not helping me. It's not helping anybody anywhere, either.
She wrote so many "[patient can barely do this]" and "[patient cannot do that at all]" and "[patient can only do that for so long]" and "[patient needs an unnatural amount of rest]" answers that it seemed like every single answer translated to "Patient is a debilitated mess." Even the questions about emotional and mental competence were negative. My memory blanks out too much, I often stammer and slur while speaking, I lose words too often, and I am in tears almost all the time wishing it wasn't my life.
(It's the losing words that hurts the most; I find myself resorting to Buffyspeak via TV Tropes too often. It's getting to the point where I almost hyperventilate when I forget the proper words, especially because I've always been a natural writer. While we were speaking, I found myself pausing, stumbling over my tongue, physically struggling for words that were so easy.
And people look at me and see nothing wrong, just a tired pale girl who limps and twitches a lot and looks like she hurts but probably doesn't because she seems fine even when she has a cane. But my doctor knows to look deeper; every time we see each other her eyes immediately fill with sympathy.)
My doctor called me "Sweetheart" and "Dear" and wished me a good weekend despite the migraine, and she told me that I was one of her dearest patients and she really wished she could do everything to help me; and her compassion and made me choke up a little. Having your primary care doctor love you and want to help you as much as possible... I feel like it is so rare.
It is actually one hundred degrees outside. That is not helping me. It's not helping anybody anywhere, either.