The Diagnosis

The day of my rheumatology appointment finally arrived. As "luck" would have it, my parents had previously scheduled their vacation to New Orleans to be the same week as my appointment. Once I got checked in at the hospital, the four of us sat in the waiting room. Dad and Jeremy played Angry Birds on the iPads, and mom and I just sat there. Waiting.

 Finally my name was called, and Jeremy, my mom, and I rose from our chairs to go back to meet my new doctor. Immediately the nice nurse with the braces made a "aww poor baby" face and said, "Sorry, only one person can come back with you."

I elected to have my mother come with me. I knew I was already nervous and scatter brained, so hopefully my mom would remember to ask all of the things I would inevitably forget. After being weighed (ugh) and getting my temperature taken, we got settled into the examination room. The nice nurse with the braces handed me an ugly hospital gown to change into. 

          "Everything but your underwear, hun. Here's an extra one to put around your backside."

How thoughtful.

I changed into the dreadful garments and sat, fumbling around with the two-page list I'd written the night before of things I wanted to mention. I kept thinking to myself that I was going to look like an insane hypochondriac when I started rattling them off. But oh well, this is what I waited eight weeks for. Go big or go home, right?

We waited a short time in awkward silence, my nerves vibrating the entire time. My mom kept patting my knee and saying, "Just take a deep breath. It's going to be fine."

Finally, Dr. Collins came in. She had a kind smile and a soft hand shake. After a few routine questions, I brought up my list. To my surprise, she acted very pleased that I made it. 

Maybe I'm not a hypochondriac after all? 

After shakily rambling off everything on the list, Dr. Collins interjecting here and there, she asked me to sit on the examination table. Carefully, she examined my entire body. She felt each of my fingers, joint by joint, moving to my wrists, *ouch*, up my forearms and squeezing my elbow a bit, *ouch*. There weren’t many places she touched that didn’t hurt. Once she finished the examination of my back and legs, she let me get dressed. 

            

         “Based on your test results and physical examination, I’m going to definitely say you have Fibromyalgia,” Dr. Collins said matter-of-factly. 

What? I’m twenty-five. This is not supposed to be happening to me. I’ve always joked with my friends that I had the body of a 90-year-old woman, but I didn’t mean it. I take it back. Is this my payback for being an ornery kid when my mom was suffering?

X-rays of my hips were ordered to make sure I didn’t inherit my biological father’s arthritic cartilage. Then, a different nice nurse lady drew six vials of blood to test for every auto-immune disease and deficiency in the book. Finally we were allowed to go. This time, I left the doctor with three prescriptions in hand. I finally had my answer. I was supposed to feel better right? Now I knew why I hurt. I was supposed to feel closure, have a new outlook, and make a new plan for how my life would be from now on. I now had a name for it. A label. I am labeled. Fibromyalgia. That damned F-word again.

As soon as we got in the car, I text my best friend. I wasn't really in the mood to be consoled. Other than my mother, my best friend Maggie would understand it better than anyone else. She too lives with an invisible, chronic disease. She’s strong and inspiring. She wouldn't pity me and make me feel like I’d just been diagnosed with a terminable illness. I had my brave face on and I was accepting the information like it was the score of a football game I had no interest in. 

“Just got done with the rheumatologist. She said Fibromyalgia,” I said shortly.

Almost immediately she text back.

           

          “That sucks, dude. I’m sorry. You ok?”

Not the response I was expecting. My brain was already in “no big deal” mode. Everything was cool. This piece of information was as important as the brand of cereal I ate this morning for breakfast. It didn’t even warrant a second thought, until she asked if I was ok. Maggie has a few ways of showing emotion: activism, dance, good old-fashioned soapbox ranting, and every once in a while, she gets serious. This was serious. It was exactly then that I realized my life was never going to be the same. But I kept my brave face on, and off we went to do tourist-y things and have fun. We were on vacation, after all.