December 11, 2008, is a date which will be forever seared in my memory. It is a day I should have died if God had not miraculously intervened. Although I survived sepsis with organ failure, the life I knew had ended. During the ensuing weeks, my health started to quickly decline; I was thrust into the world of medicine as a patient searching for answers. On July 9, 2009, doctor number 87 gave me my first official diagnosis: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS). Despite fighting and fighting to hang on to the dream I had worked my whole life for, I was losing the battle. On October 10, 2009, I had to make a heart-breaking decision--it was time to give up everything and go live with my parents. (For more details, please click here)
Although I had a diagnosis of POTS, my doctor and I were convinced there was something else causing my endless symptoms. During the next several years, I employed all my skills and knowledge to figure out what was plaguing me. I knew once I had a diagnosis, I could get better. When the words "Mitochondrial Disease" and "chronic progressive illness" entered my vocabulary, I thought, "Ok. I am not going to be able to recover from this hurdle. But I will do everything I can to get stabilized, and then I will exit the world of medicine never to return." And I did just that. After battling gastrointestinal failure, autonomic nervous system dysfunction, strokes, pancreatitis attacks, etc., I finally got myself to a point where I happily left my doctors behind and started pretending there was nothing wrong with me.
This all worked until December 2016 when my breathing abruptly took a turn for the worse. Once more, I fought and fought through this obstacle. When I got a tracheostomy in May 2017, I again believed I just needed to get myself stabilized, and then I would again depart from medicine. Unfortunately, that plan never worked. In July 2017, I developed my first hospital-acquired respiratory infection. And from there, I have had fourteen additional infections. I kept telling myself, "I just need to get rid of this bug, and then I will be done with doctors." But as hard as I tried, God kept sending infection after infection.
And that brings me to 2019. I continued to battle Pseudomonas, a nasty bacterium I had acquired in July 2018 from a hospital ventilator. But now, my frequent hospitalizations triggered suspicion among my doctors. A diagnosis of Munchausen Syndrome was attached to my chart. Although this is a new (and absolutely ridiculous) diagnosis, I was once more being cast off into the psychiatric ward. Instead of treating my infection (which was confirmed by blood tests, findings on radiological studies and sputum cultures), I was told I was not sick. Subsequently, treatment was ceased; the infection never cleared; illness reoccurred. The only option was to go back to the hospital and hope and pray the Munchausen diagnosis disappears. (It does not.)
During future hospitalizations, everything is questioned. It does not matter that all logic says you are sick with pneumonia. My doctors have a special mission to prove I am a fraud. (I pretended to have a fever, and the nurse charted it. I desired to have elevated white blood cell counts, and the laboratory recorded it. I fooled the radiologist to document I had pneumonia in my lungs. I faked having bacteria in my respiratory tract and somehow coerced the imaginary bacteria to grow on culture media. Obviously, you can see how absurd this all is...but to my doctors, I have Munchausen Syndrome, and this is what people with Munchausen do--feign illness.)
In addition to all this, I was mourning for my old life. Now that I was back in the world of medicine, I was surrounded by so many people living out their dreams...living out my dream. As time progressed, people moved through their training programs. They graduated and continued pursuing their hopes and aspirations. I stayed the same. I was still sick, still fighting respiratory tract infections and still the patient. As doctors dismissed my symptoms, I wondered why I even tried. Why do I continue on this medical merry-go-round just to be tossed off and thrown into the dirt? With this soured mindset, I began making bad decisions. I resolved I would not go back to the hospital no matter how sick I was.
When I was extremely ill, my mom would chasten me for not seeking medical treatment. Although I am normally disinclined to follow advice contrary to my desires, when I am sick, I am reminded to follow the fifth commandment--honor your father and mother. Under protest, I would go to the emergency department. I would sarcastically say to myself, "If they are going to diagnosis me with Munchausen, it should really be Munchausen by proxy; I am only seeking medical attention because my mom dragged me here!" My mom, however, would be right. I was very sick. Sepsis, pneumonia, stroke and meningitis are some of the conditions in which I found myself in the emergency department during this last year. If I would have remained at home, I probably would not be here.
Thank you everyone who has supported me through this journey. It has been a blessing to have such amazing friends and allies as we walk this life together. Whatever lies before us in 2020, it is with the assurance of God's endless love that we can confidently continue being valiant warriors through all life's adventures. Happy New Year!
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