This year has been trying. I really thought I had something going. I found a new doctor who had new ideas, and we tried some of them. I took drugs to kill the mold living in my gut. I lived with the painful side effects of the mold toxins in my nervous system (when mold dies, it releases mold toxins or “mycotoxins” as a last hurrah). I found some supplements that really helped with the energy issue and my inability to sleep on a normal schedule. I even found one that helped with my food allergies and low blood pressure. I hoped, even allowed myself to believe that I could possibly be on a path to a cure.
I had one amazing week this year. We went to Maui with some friends. Every day of that trip I felt better and better, with the fog clearing from my brain. I was able to get up early every day. I was able to swim long distances to snorkel with very little exertion. It was almost like I wasn’t sick. When I got a serious gluten exposure, the supplements effectively mitigated the worst of the bad effects.
I started to engage in activities like I wasn’t sick. I started working with a physiotherapist on some exercises to stop my back from hurting. I invested more energy into Kitty Mine Crafts because I could. I started making plans to travel to Europe next year. I was finally going to not be sick anymore.
A little bit after my birthday, I saw a friend who had a small, but lingering cold. She told me she wasn’t contagious anymore, because it had been weeks. I laughed, telling her not to underestimate my ability to catch her cold. I thought I was kidding. I really did.
About 48 hours later, I felt like I had a light cold. I worried a bit, but I thought that maybe I had done enough to reset my immune system, to get it acting properly. I took the right vitamins. I rested, because I wanted to give my body its best chance to heal.
After a few days, I wasn’t better. My cold symptoms were gone, but I felt like I did three years ago when I found myself all but confined to my couch for a year. It was a little better this time, because I knew about my soy allergy, so my brain wasn’t on fire. I also have this whole fiber business going on, so I had things I could do from my sofa other than watching television. I made friends with a few video games I had been neglecting in my health. I thought I could overcome this by doing all the right things.
Then days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into two months. I’m better than I was on the first day, but right now, I have pretty firm limits. I thought, though, that my new doctor could help me recover faster. That it wouldn’t have to be a full year, or even another month of this.
When I told him I relapsed, he decided it would be a good opportunity to redo the echo and MRI I had done two years ago. He thought we’d see something because I was freshly into an active stage of the disease. Except it came back like I told him, all clean, save for something called a T2 prolongation in the white matter of my brain. It apparently has grown since it was last noted. All either of us knows about it is that these things can come up after an infection of some sort (autoimmune or viral) has crossed into the brain. It’s associated with migraines, MS, and vascular dementia. But that’s it.
He had me schedule another appointment a month later. When I hadn’t somehow remitted, he told me the most devastating thing he could have. He said that we had reached the limits of his education, and he couldn’t do anything else for me. He said he knew how to remove road blocks to healing, and he thought he had removed all of mine. He said that now it’s about convincing my body to heal, and he doesn’t know how to do that. He said my answers would not come from the medical field, but from diet and nutrition. He told me to comb the alternative disciplines for answers. The bottom line is, he left me out here on my own.
We discussed what I was going to do. I told him that I hadn’t been able to get out of the house for long because I couldn’t walk far or stand in line, and you do a lot of that at Christmas. He offered to do his part to get me a handicap parking permit. I invested in a cane that has a folding seat attached so I can stand in long lines (I find it preferable to a chair, which I don’t really feel I need). I even talked to a friend about coming to work for me as a part time personal assistant. All accommodations I didn’t want to make, but I feel I have to now. Because I can’t count on getting better.
See, at that appointment, a little more of my hope died. I thought if I kept at it, if I kept trying, I could get better. I mean, that’s what so many people say about ME/CFS – that we’re not trying hard enough, and if we did, we would get better. We have to want it. For some unknowable (to me) reason, I let those notions linger in my thoughts. Well, I do want it. And I have tried harder than anyone I know to not be sick. After years of trying, I got better for a week. One amazingly well-timed week. Then I was having trouble recovering from the trip, and then I caught a cold. And then I ended up disabled. I’m not sure these things are unrelated.
If trying got you better, I would be the healthiest person in the world. I watch my diet so carefully. I ask questions and tell people who really have no business knowing that I need them to be careful how they handle my food. I explored new treatments and I endured grueling side effects (seriously, the mycotoxins lit every nerve of my body on fire, and I thought that death would have been a kinder fate). I took medications that wiped out large portions of my days. I take pills all the time to sleep and stay awake at normal hours. I read every label on everything I touch. I do all of this, and I’m not better.
I hate that I’ve caved and started making accommodations for the ME/CFS. The fact that I’ve done this means that I’m accepting this is here for the long term. My doctors are telling me that this is real, and any hope I had of this being a psychosomatic thing I could cure just by wanting it to go away is gone. I’m sick, for real. This is going to be my life. The worst part is, when I give something up temporarily, it seems like I never get it back. Temporary seems to be what I tell myself to get through the transition from being able to do something myself to losing that ability.
I know that this sounds pretty dark. It is pretty dark. I’m mourning a loss. Along with my hope, the person I was going to be died. The person who is here now is different – not necessarily worse, and possibly even better. The future I was envisioning with world travel and a big important career is gone. The new future is not what the person I was wanted. I’m going to try to make it what the new person I am will want, though.
I only have vague notions of what my future is going to have in it. Several of my doctors have asked if I would please consider medical school, given that I have the intelligence and life experience that could really change other people’s life. I have to get to a certain point in healing before I can do that, though. I can’t read for long anymore. I can barely write without breaking it into several short sessions because the required focus wears me out. My memory is good long-term, but the short term memory is nothing short of terrible. I forget sentences I uttered just moments before. These are not conducive to intense study.
I’m not sure about how travel will go. I can’t enjoy Europe as I am right now. I can’t walk far, and getting the gear I need that far across the world would be hard. And let’s not forget the flight – the security procedures have become so terrible for me that the last time I flew, I completely broke down emotionally. The seats themselves generate pain on short flights. I’d be debilitated by the time I landed on a longer flight. I know I can fly within the US, but I think I’m going to have to cut back again. And I still can’t travel during the holiday and flu season.
I think I’m going to keep up with my wool business. I like that work, and it’s something I can do when I can’t be up for long stretches. And I made some great friends that way – I think that there are more friends out there that I just haven’t met yet.
I have a feeling that fostering will become an even smaller part of my life. I mean, with a personal assistant to help me, it should be more manageable, but I don’t know how I’ll manage to put my personal touch on the kittens if I am less involved.
So, yeah, that’s where I am. A lot sicker and quite lost. I haven’t given up entirely, but it’s an attractive option. Until then, I’ll keep trying.