medical doctor holding patient's hands and comforting her

Dear Nurse,

I’m sure for you it was just an ordinary day. It is just what you do. You are so filled with compassion that it just comes out of you naturally.

But you made a world of difference to me, far more than you will ever know.

As I sat in the waiting room all dressed in the appropriate patient attire — gown, housecoat, hospital slippers I once again ran through in my head what I would need to tell you. That I had a very rare medical condition that makes doing this medical procedure much more complicated. That this procedure had a high likelihood of triggering an attack that could be life-threatening in a very short amount of time, requiring very specialized medical treatment. That this disease, and treatment, is so poorly understood in the medical community that there could be a high chance that my life would be at risk simply because of all the unknowns related to this disease. That I’ve had too many times in the past where the medical team thought they knew better and did not listen, placing me in much medical distress.

Before I could fully finish rehearsing in my head what I needed to say, you called me from the waiting room. As you greeted me and ensured you took the time to ask the proper pronunciation of my name. Then you assisted in getting me settled in the procedure room taking the time to clarify several important points: your name, your role, and a good overview of what was to happen over the next few hours.

Then, as expected, you began taking my medical history. As it came time to discuss my very rare medical condition, I began to speak quickly and was prepared to hand you the stack of medical journals and letters from my speciality clinic. It was my attempt to dump as much medical knowledge about this disease to you in what short time I knew was allotted to take my medical history.

But then you said the perfect words that I needed to hear: “I never heard of that condition before. My years of experience as a nurse has taught me those living with rare conditions know their bodies, and their disease, better than anyone. Can you please tell me all that you think is important for me to know before we start this procedure? You can take as long as you need to explain it.”

With each one of her words I could take deeper and deeper breaths, relaxing as I explained how this disease would impact this medical procedure. You listened intently, only interrupting to ask additional questions to help best understand.

Once I felt that you had a good understanding of how this disease affected my medical procedure, you very gently collected the rest of the medical team in the procedure room and brought them to silence around me. You shared with them that I had a rare disease and allowed me the opportunity to tell the entire team what I had just shared with

When all the questions from the team had ended you allowed me a few moments of quiet. You then then asked me if there was anything further that I felt needed to be shared with the team; both about my medical history and about me as a person.

I could easily respond with, “No, you have provided me an opportunity to share all that I need to.”

You have no idea the gift that was. The opportunity to ensure all in the room knew how to prevent me from entering a life-threatening situation.

As the procedure began, I couldn’t see what was happening so you explained each step to me right before the doctor did it.

During the first big pinch of pain you asked me how I was feeling.

I felt comfortable sharing the true feeling in that moment. “Anxious.”

It was then that you pulled up a chair beside me and took my hand. You looked me in the eyes and told me I could squeeze your hand as hard as I needed to. Then you continued to explain what was happening, allowing equal time for explanation and quiet.

And then it was all over. I made it through. And it all went OK. There are only two words I have left to share with you: thank you!

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Thinkstock photo by michaeljung


As we approached Rare Disease Awareness Day, I thought back to when our 10-year-old daughter, Kelley, was finally diagnosed with an ultra-rare disease in 1973. There wasn’t a cure or treatment, and we couldn’t imagine ​a time when so many of us would be able to connect for a common purpose.

​We traveled a lonely road for many years before finding and joining a group with similar conditions in 1990. When attending a conference in 1996, we were disappointed no one had the same diagnosis as Kelley. Still, we hoped someday we would meet up with others, so we stayed with them, attending more conferences whenever we could. With receipt of each newsletter I searched the list of new members, looking for others with Kelley’s condition, and I contacted them. We really wanted to meet others who shared her diagnosis. At first correspondence was spotty, but when the internet became available, we were able to exchange email addresses. In an attempt to answer many of the questions that the newly diagnosed families had, I wrote a book about everything Kelley had been through at that time. “Kelley’s Journey: Facing a Rare Disease with Courage” was published in 2003.

Shortly after that, we were invited to join another organization with similar conditions, and in 2005 we attended a conference where, for the first time, the doctors and researchers actually talked about the fact that they were working on Kelley’s disease. It was wonderful to meet with others with the same and similar conditions, learning how much we had in common, even though there were variations in the ways our families were affected. We saw how much could be achieved when the families came together for a common cause of advancing research in their own and other conditions.

After ​​Kelley died at the age of 45 in 2009, I prepared to update my original book, only to realize that there was a much more comprehensive book waiting to be written. A dozen other mothers answered my many questions and shared their rare disease experiences for “Diagnosis: Rare Disease,” published in 2014.

At a 2015 Conference there were 175 attendees from nine countries, 30 of whom were professionals. It was gratifying to witness so much progress and hope for all families dealing with rare diseases. What a long way we have come, witnessing what can happen when all of us involved in the rare disease community work together, no matter what the name of the condition, to find ways to raise money and awareness of the needs of those who must cope with complicated conditions. Most caregivers are tired and fragile at times, but we’ve seen what can happen for the benefit of everyone when we remember no one is perfect. When working to make my own personal corrections, I remember once hearing, “Consider how hard it is to change yourself, and you’ll see what little chance you have of changing anyone else.”

With so many now working on rare diseases, we must maintain a strong partnership between the medical community and all rare disease groups, encouraging each other and overlooking our differences so that everyone may benefit. As one of the conference doctors said, “We’re all on the same road.”

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

On Tuesday, in his joint address to Congress, Donald Trump highlighted Rare Disease Day. ”An incredible young woman is with us this evening who should serve as an inspiration to us all,” Trump said introducing Megan Crowley, a college sophomore with Pompe disease. “Today is Rare Disease Day, and joining us in the gallery is a rare disease survivor.”

Trump went on to tell Crowley’s story – her diagnosis at 15 months old and her father’s founding of a bioengineering firm that helped develop a treatment for the disease.

Prior to his speech, Trump met with Crowley and her father to discuss the needs of those living with rare diseases. “Megan and our family will meet privately in the Oval Office with the President to discuss the needs of people living with rare diseases, and especially advancing medicines for treatments and cures for ALL rare diseases,” Crowley’s father, John Crowley, announced in a Facebook post Tuesday morning.

“Megan’s story is about the unbounded power of a father’s love for a daughter,” Trump said in his address, using Crowley’s story to touch on the approval process for orphan drugs. “But our slow and burdensome approval process at the Food and Drug Administration keeps too many advances, like the one that saved Megan’s life, from reaching those in need. If we slash the restraints, not just at the FDA but across our government, then we will be blessed with far more miracles like Megan.”

On Tuesday, Megan Crowley, a college sophomore with Pompe disease, will meet with President Donald Trump in a private meeting to discuss the needs of those living with rare diseases. The meeting, which happens to take place on February 28, Rare Disease Day, precedes Trump’s address to the joint session of Congress, to which Crowley will be attending as a guest of the President and First Lady.

“Megan and our family will meet privately in the Oval Office with the President to discuss the needs of people living with rare diseases, and especially advancing medicines for treatments and cures for ALL rare diseases,” Crowley’s father, John Crowley, wrote in a Facebook post announcing the meeting.

The Crowley family have been a part of the rare disease community for more than a decade. After Megan and her brother were diagnosed with Pompe disease, their father founded a bioengineering company with the hopes of treating the condition.

According to Stat, the Crowley patriarch still works in biopharmaceuticals and is being floated as a potential Republican candidate for New Jersey’s next U.S. Senate race.

Trump photo credit: Michael Vadon

What does rare disease mean to you?

To me, rare disease means a mutated gene on my daughter’s chromosome 15. A gene that we all have but in her case, hers doesn’t work. It means very little answers followed by a whole lot of concern. It means a handful of wrong diagnosis until we found the main cause. It means speech therapy three times a week, it means chronic pain and delayed intellectual abilities. It’s fighting through life for things she needs at whatever the cost.

Rare means spending a lot more money on medical expenses than the average person. It’s about having a glimmer of hope that something might make a difference in your child’s life, because no one can say for sure either way.

Rare to me means spending a lot of time in the car driving miles to seek medical care, because not every city and state has a doctor that understands rare. Rare is a long list of symptoms that as a parent you wish you could just sum it all up with a proper diagnosis instead of a gene no one has heard about.

Rare is scary, it’s isolating. It’s getting up every day and wondering how will my child feel today. That magnitude of worry is consuming. With every breath I take I inhale and exhale her rare condition.

Rare is the dark circles under my eyes, it’s sleepless nights and the cause of my insomnia. Rare is the lack of funds in my bank account, it’s the silence in the air that at times I only hear. It’s the cause of my wrinkles and the reason for my constant state of brain fog.

Rare is what comes between my daughter and the world, it limits her. Rare has flipped my world upside down and forever changed me. It keeps me on my toes, it keeps me searching for answers.

Rare finds a way to be acknowledged even during the happiest of moments. Rare will keep your eyes posted to every genetic study being done in hopes that maybe, just maybe, today might be the day that someone can help take away her pain.

Rare will put into perspective just how big this world really is and remind you that you really are one-of-a-kind. Rare is living with uncertainty, rare is trying to ignore that last scientific study that was done on your child’s mutated gene, the one that showed brain deterioration in mice. Rare is hope, it’s humbling, it will slow you in your tracks. It will change the way you look at the world and science and realize just how amazing it all is, but how far we still need to go. You will realize you knew nothing about the human body because if you did, then you would know that some genes cause devastating affects.

To me, rare is my beautiful daughter, it’s her sweet smile. It’s her determination to succeed. It’s her bravery, her generous personality. It’s her curiosity, it’s her contagious laugh, her big bright brown eyes which are the first things you see when she walks in a room.

Understanding my daughter’s rare condition is the hardest but best thing I’ve ever done.

Rare is everything that’s wrong in my life, but at the same time it’s everything that’s wonderful in my world.

Rare Disease Day is February 28, 2017.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Thinkstock photo by

San Francisco’s cool air fills my car. As the sound of Eric Church’s voice brings smile to my face. The music starts bumping through my speakers. For a moment I’m lost in the lyrics. My feet don’t feel the fire, even though they are moving to the beats. For a moment I’m lost in the dance. I’m smiling, experiencing pure happiness and I want the world to see me shine. For a moment I’m lost in my bubble. Singing at the top of my lungs even though I’m not in my shower. I’m praying this moment won’t ever come to an end. The fire can’t touch me when I got my boys Eric, Luke, Zach, Garth, Cole, Dunn, Tim, Jason, Brooks, Sam and Alan consuming my heart.

I often turn to them multiple times throughout each day when I need to escape. They are always there to help stop the fire that burns through my world every day.

Luke is always there for me no matter what my mood is. Zach makes me want to get up and shake my ass. Eric always calms my nerves and brings me peace. Garth just knows how to make me want to have a good time. Brooks & Dunn, Alan and Tim take me back to a simpler time, right back to my childhood, riding shotgun with my daddy. Sam reminds me to just have a house party when I’m too weak to go out. When Cole and Jason sing, the words connect straight to my heart.

These men free me from the fire every day, even if I am only free for a moment. I am grateful for my country boys, and each of the moments they give me. The moments where I can forget that I’m sick, the moments where I’m just normal country girl dreaming of a great tushy (Yes Luke, I’m talking about you!), the moments where I’m back in that old Ford truck, and the moments where I can walk around in my country boots pain free.

Battling erthromelalgia (EM) is always easier when you have a crew behind you. When you find an escape from the fire, from the pain, from the tears. When you find something to put you to sleep after three days of being awake.

Woman wearing a baseball hat, waiting for a concert to begin.

When you have this horrible rare disease, learning how to battle the fire that burns inside of you is the most important yet difficult thing. Trying to find an escape from all symptoms that come with EM, and the toll this disease continues to take on my body has become harder and harder for me. As the disease progresses, the symptoms only get worse, and I become more desperate to find any form of relief.

Wherever I go, I have my playlist in hand. I find comfort in knowing that I have videos of Luke Bryan performing live at his recent Mountain View concert. I have videos of Brooks & Dunn performing live at their last Bay Area concert.

The comfort I get from watching these videos and listening to my playlists of these amazingly talented artists are what get me through each day. There is not a day that passes by that I don’t have my country boys with me. They’re always there with me in my apartment, in my car, on the train, at my desk, on walks, bringing me comfort at the doctors, helping calm my nerves as another rush of nausea runs through me because in a matter of minutes the flare up has gone from two to seven on the pain scale, and the medication hasn’t even begun to kick in yet.

My country boys are some of my warriors in my battle against the fire of EM. They have no idea or insight into what they have given me. But I am forever grateful for them and the talent that share with the world. Today in this moment while writing this I have them by my side, cooling the fire and inspiring the words that I will share with the world.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Real People. Real Stories.

150 Million

We face disability, disease and mental illness together.