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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.
