Why It's Not Easy Living in a Small Town With My Rare Disorder

The shower head in our bathroom won’t stop dripping. It’s incessant “drip, drip, drip” keeps Joe and I awake at night. I catch myself nodding my head in time with the drips. It has essentially become the metronome of our existence at home. We’ve tried everything to fix it. We turn the shower on and back off again. Sometimes that slows the dripping- other times it gets worse instead. We’ve cleaned the shower head and the on/off lever. Sometimes we push really hard on the nozzle in hopes that
we’ll make the shower completely stop running water. It doesn’t work. Nothing
works.

Now, some of you are saying, “Why don’t you change the shower head?” Well, that’s a fine idea, but it’s not exactly in mine and Joe’s skill set. You see, Joe and I have a variety of gifts and talents – none of which include plumbing. I mean, technically, Joe fixed our sump pump a couple months ago, but he used a couple dumbbells and duct tape to do so. I’m not sure that solitary experience makes him qualified to change out shower fixtures.

I once fixed the toilet chain in a college dorm toilet (seriously, Cumberland
College, why was I fixing my own toilet?) with a paper clip, but again, that’s
hardly professional experience. It has come to this – we need a real, licensed
plumber. That comes with its own set of difficulties. It takes days of sitting
around the house before a person actually shows up for non-emergency water
problems. Real, licensed plumbers are way more expensive than mine and Joe’s
pseudo-expertise. At this point, we have just accepted the shower drips, and that’s a strange quirk of our home.

Why do I think you care about my plumbing woes? Well, I don’t suppose you do. However, the drippy shower has become my constant analogy for living life with a rare disease. My body has several medical “quirks.” The quirks are the background noise for everyday. But, at this point, I don’t have the time, energy, or money to address the issues. Much like my dripping shower faucet, my aches and pains have become such a part of my existence, that while I’m not happy with the situation, I’ve accepted them as part of life. My pain is not adequately managed, and I don’t always deal with it well.

However, small town medicine is about as effective with managing a rare disease as Joe and I are at handling our plumbing situation. I have great doctors, really. I am sure they are great with managing many common illnesses. I feel like if I were a typical patient and went to any of my medical team with strep throat or high cholesterol or any number of other common problems they could handle it beautifully. Let me be clear – my frustration is not directed toward local practitioners. My frustration lies in the fact that awareness is lacking, physician education is lacking, and I’m the one struggling. Unfortunately, when you’re a “zebra” in the medical community, your problems are anything but common.

Even when my complaints are “common” there’s always a rare disease (and its complications) to take into account. The people that are equipped to help me (you know, the ones who have actually heard of my illness) are hours away. They’re in clinics with a two-year waiting list. But, I’ve never really had a medical issue that I’ve thought, “Wow. This should probably be addressed 24 months from now.” That’s not how illness works either. It’s complicated. It really is. For my friends with
complex medical issues, medical care is pretty much a gamble. We are begging to
be heard (drip, drip, drip), but we are blending in with the masses.

I get it. I don’t expect many doctors in small towns in America to be experts in any rare disease.

I’m not blaming doctors for this discrepancy.

I’m simply saying this life is difficult.

My medical issues aren’t easily addressed, and I am tired of being turned away. My illness is a constant dripping that keeps me up at night — praying that at no point does the drip turn into a gush — and knowing if it does, I’m poorly equipped to handle the
fallout.

 Follow this journey on Crazy, Chronic Life

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