Last week, I had an annual check up with my internist. She reviewed my yearly blood work before conducting a brief physical, doing what primary care physicians typically do during regular, scheduled check-ups. In retrospect, there was nothing to be nervous about, as the appointment was just for checking in, nothing new. But three hours beforehand, I felt that familiar fear creep out of hiding, the one that’s painfully festered throughout these past two years.
I seem to remember almost enjoying going to the doctor’s as a child. With their impressive supply of stickers, it was kind of hard not to. But I think it was because there was some element of it all that always felt like a field trip of sorts. I was never a regular there, at least not yet; I was simply a visitor who showed up once, maybe twice a year, mostly to confirm that I was still completely healthy.
In those days, there was no ailment I brought in that the doctor couldn’t quickly fix or understand. My pediatrician was for strep throat and flu shots, and I hadn’t yet traveled into the realm of Western medicine that isn’t designed for complicated chronic issues. In those days, I hadn’t yet developed finger tremors or muscle twitches that confused and puzzled my knowledgable doctors. I hadn’t yet felt the terror of staring down the long, dark road towards a diagnosis.
I miss that trust I used to have in my body, the trust that I’d swiftly recover from whatever came my way. I miss having ailments that could be fixed with a simple round of antibiotics.
These days, the doctor’s office fills me with dread. I guess that’s just what happens when you’ve endured enough medical testing. Oftentimes, I’ll try to reason my way out of the panic, telling myself things are better now, that I’ve survived the hardest part. Even so, my logic typically fails me; the memories are still too strong.
By now, I’ve learned to stop fighting against these feelings. With the help of my therapist, I’ve practiced letting them come and letting them go, giving them the space they need to arrive, as they inevitably will. It’s another exercise of surrender, a releasing of the illusion more commonly known as “control.”
On the car ride there, I felt the awaited dread rise within me. I tried to tune it out with my calm meditation music, but the two clashed in a minor key; the dissonance was striking. The dread felt thick and aggressive, like waves from a raging sea, and the salty water filled up my car, all the way to the brim. With shaky hands and a shaky breath, I tried my hardest not to drown.
When I arrived, I took a deep breath before stepping out of my car. I straightened my denim jacket as if it were my armor. Alone and scarcely armed, I walked through the automatic doors.
I arrived at the office, found a chair, filled out forms. Before I knew it, I was standing on a scale, then sitting in the exam room with a blood pressure cuff wrapped tightly around my arm.
It wasn’t long before my internist walked into the room, carrying a warmth that neutralized some of the chill from that afternoon. After a round of small talk, she reviewed my blood work and declared I’m essentially “a healthy young woman, with POTS”. My shoulders relaxed a centimeter.
She stood up, began the physical exam, but not before commenting on my reusable liter water bottle–a staple accessory for anyone with POTS. “I never leave the house without it,” I joked. “You’re doing everything right,” she responded, with kindness and care.
Throughout the past year, I’ve learned how to take good care of myself, but still, that sentence filled me with relief. The invisible mountain of bricks on my back disintegrated, drifting to the floor like a cloud of dust. I took a deep breath, mostly because she told me to, in order to check my lung function, but it was partly involuntary too; for the first time in that examination room, I could breathe again.
My internist released me from the appointment with the remark, “no torture for you today.” She was referring to blood work and other medical testing, and though it was a joke, it rang true. With the feeling I’ve paid, if not surpassed, my medical dues, I collected my bag and gigantic water bottle. I let the door of the exam room shut swiftly behind me.
Walking out of that appointment, I nearly strutted down the hallway. I felt strong and resilient, as if I’d just slayed a thousand dragons. I think, in a way, I did. With shoulders squared and a head held high, I relished in my quiet victory.
Climbing back into my car, I took a moment to regroup. Even on a good day, that office is disorienting, with or without new covid-19 protocols.
My internist’s office is the place where a doctor first spoke the name “POTS” to me. It’s the place I’ve returned to again and again throughout this journey, each appointment a major checkpoint along the way. My internist is also the doctor who coordinates all of my care, and though this seems like it would provide a sense of structure and stability, in reality, I’ve found it does the opposite.
Because POTS affects my nervous system and because the nervous system controls, well, pretty much everything, my collective symptoms of heart palpitations, dizziness, GI distress, and more, each require specialists of their own. It takes a village to treat POTS, from neurologists to cardiologists to gastroenterologists, allergists, and more, and my internist is typically the one writing the referrals, shipping me off to my many specialists. This contributes to a sense of disorienting, fragmented care, and I now see seven specialists to help manage my condition (not including my PTs, my therapist, and my dietician.)
That office holds so many different versions of myself, and each time I return, it’s like bumping into all of them at once. They fill the stuffy waiting room, taking up space in the chairs next to me. It’s almost as if they’re all frozen in time, suspended in their silent suffering. I want to reach out to them, lock eyes, hold their hand.
There’s the 18 year old who was struggling to recover from mono; the tired musical theatre performer wondering why she’s tired all the time; the scared college student that sensed something was wrong; the exasperated full-time patient who was desperate for a diagnosis; there’s the freshly diagnosed college drop-out, fumbling around in the dark. And then there was me: the one who’s found her footing, who made it to 2021 somehow.
It’s a lot to walk into, and it’s a lot to leave behind.
I wish I could tell each of those versions of myself that I have finally made it to the “maintenance stage.” That all the medical testing does in fact end, that she will find the answers she’s fighting for and learn to live in the unlivable. I wanted them to know there’s a part of the story where it really does all get better, that I’m in it now, the falling action, living in an ending she dreamed of but didn’t know how to reach.
In the driver’s seat, I attempted to collect my scattered thoughts, trying to settle into my new reality: the one where not all doctor’s appointments are traumatizing.
Putting the car in reverse, I drove to a nearby park where I celebrated with a short walk and sitting meditation. It’s a treat because I’m well enough to do this now, but also because anything is a celebration if you label it as one. I’m learning there’s a lot of power in that. Celebration is a powerful thing.
As I pulled into the parking lot, there was a boulder engraved with the name of the park. The sign read, “Champion Park.” I smiled to myself, chuckling a little, because it could not have been more fitting.
I am a champion, and I felt like one too.
