Below I’ve written a short poem. I’d hate for what I write to come off as “poor me”, these are not my intentions in the slightest. In this poem I wanted to get my thoughts across bluntly.

I feel strongly that the medical community needs to improve in many areas, including, most importantly, taking concerns seriously. It took me five years for a proper diagnosis (including a bit of my own time to research the most effective treatment methods and to locate a good doctor who uses those treatment methods), but in hindsight, I think my problems may have begun several years prior to those five years.

My symptoms seemed to have peaked five years ago, and progressively grew worse before my treatment. I’m still healing now about six months out, and the negativity cloud still haunts me that I won’t “get better”. Alas, I have more than the one issue that was treated, so there’s probably more that needs to be done. How fun. Here goes:

It’s the pain that starts suddenly,

it’s the sharp, piercing, tearing, twinge.

It’s the curling in a ball and hiding days,

it’s the “I’m staying in”.

It’s the appointment you call to make,

it’s the doctor’s extra long stare.

It’s the list of symptoms so long you’re embarrassed,

it’s the worry of being dismissed.

It’s the hope for a better tomorrow,

but knowing it’s probably far off.

It’s the tears at the end of the day,

it’s the “I’m fine, I’m okay.”


Photo from, by jarmoluk


Author: tiredmindtypingfingers

Writing about writing and chronic illness, and trying to make something out of it.

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