In 2009, June 7th was a Sunday. I woke up early to get ready for the two test prep courses I would be teaching. It had been a long night, I still wasn't sleeping for more than 20 minutes at a time, and my oldest dog, Chewy, seemed to have a resurgence of the infection we had been working on with the vet for the last two and half weeks - she was pacing and panting all night. Neither one of us could comfort each other, and neither one of us was ready for a new day.
As soon as I got into the shower I felt and saw the world darken around me, I stepped out and called my husband as I slowly felt my legs give way. My husband was there before I hit the floor. He followed me back to the bedroom where I walked right into a wall and then laid down (I know this part because he told me, I have never had any recollection of it).
"We are going to the emergency room," he said.
"But Chewy needs to go the vet," I said, knowing that my trip to the hospital would not be a short one and that she needed help fast.
My husband saw what I didn't - I needed help fast, too, "You first."
I didn't come back that night. In fact, I didn't come back home until the afternoon of June 12th. I had returned with a treatment, a diagnosis, and when I came home there were only two dogs to greet me, instead of three, in so many ways, life had been changed.
So, you may be asking yourself, why reflect on such a sad time? Why relive it every year? These are good questions, and I have some answers:
- I want to learn from it. I don't want to make the same mistakes again. My diagnose-ary should have been in August or September of the year before. In fact, some of my doctors believe it should have been as early as 2007 or 2006! I allowed myself to get to a point where my body completely had to give up on me to notice! I also was losing my vision day by day, but I told myself I didn't have the time to get to a doctor because of work, because my dog was sick, and because I had to cook dinner! The same vigilance that I attacked Chewy's sickness with, I should have attacked my own.
- It is not all sad news. My spinal tap was one of the most euphoric things I have ever had done in my life. In minutes this doctor literally sucked away years of pain from my head, my back, and my body. I couldn't be more grateful. Also, just having a name for what was going on with me was a god-send in itself, before that I literally thought I was losing my mind. Finally, my vision, even though it is still limited, was saved. There was a time where I had to hold my husband's hand to walk around because I couldn't clearly see the floor beneath my feet - I can now walk on my own and conduct myself in a way that many can forget about my issue when they are around me.
I was finally allowed to go there on Tuesday, once it was cleared that I would not pass out, have a seizure or go into cardiac arrest (all things that were suspected when I was admitted). When the doctor looked into my eyes, his reaction was immediate and severe. He called in a number of other doctors to look into my eyes. They all mumbled excitedly before me. They noticed me when I almost passed out - I thought I was going to lose my vision. On the doctor's recommendation, I had a lumbar puncture (aka - my momentary glimpse of what heaven feels like) on June 10, 2009. That LP, with an opening pressure of 570mm H2O, confirmed all that the doctors mumbled about: I, the girl in pain, the girl with funny vision, the girl with dangerously low blood pressure, with a history of sciatica pain and Crohn's disease, had the rare disease known as Pseudotumor Cerebri.
There was a name for this. There were treatment options. We were going to fix this!
Happy diagnose-ary to me!
Any suggestions on how one should celebrate their diagnose-ary?
This is the one piece I have not yet figured out (although I think this year might have something to do with me seeing Super 8 in theaters!!)