I used to have this doctor who acted like having MS was akin to having a cold. My problem with this is that while I don’t want to give this disease too much credit, I also wanted some credit for what I handle on my own on a daily basis. I don’t want a medal, but yeah, I kind of do. I won't say his name, but I will give you a clue-he practices in Summit.
He used to talk to my husband about me and my diagnosis like I wasn’t in the room. He wasn’t accessible. I didn’t trust him. One day I went home and sat in my computer chair and prayed that God would lead me to somebody that would help me. I didn’t need a cure as much as I needed compassion. In the name of the Father, The Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. With that I googled ‘best MS doctor in new jersey’. Dr. Gregory Anselmi came up on the cover of the New Yorker or some magazine.
The problem with doctors who have notoriety is that there comes a waiting list with that fame. And, if you wait it out, sometimes you will get an associate at best. They are too famous for you. You talk to their ‘people’. But I called anyway and made an appointment. I wasn’t sure why I was going, but I didn’t think there was anything to lose either-as long as they took my insurance.
I went to him after work one night with my sister. I was totally unsure of what I was going to say. If you waltz into a doctor’s office and explain you thought your other doctor was an asshole, it is off putting. Who says I won’t say the same about him?
He walked in as I was trying to conjure up an opening line. “Hi I’m Jamie, I have MS!” or “Hey doc, I prayed and God led me to you so here I am!” The door opens and my gaze rested on his black leather cowboy boots. I was fascinated. I was disarmed. I don’t remember what catchy opening line I went with, but I was there for 3 hours.
His father is on the board at Mount Saint Dominic, my alma mater. His sister went to MSD. His parents go to the same church as my BF’s parents. All the stars aligned when I found this man, cowboy boots and all. When I crawl into his office on my worst of moments and I get all whaaaaa on him or me or whoever it is those cries are meant for—he quotes me. He reads what I write. He remembers what I say in these blogs, which is so hyper annoying when I want to feel bad for myself. BUT, when I get over it I realize how genius it is. He quotes me to stop me from going to those poor me places, but he does it in a way where he is also giving me confidence in my writing. He builds me up in so many ways.
I had to make an emergency visit with him yesterday. Most of the time when I’m with my doctor, I feel strong. Or stronger. It is such a relative term. The people he sees, the ones next to me in waiting rooms are so frail. So visibly sick. Most of the time I feel like the honor student in his classroom. And then there are those times like last night when I crawl into his office. Coiled up. The times when he almost literally picks me up off the floor and maneuvers my body because no matter how hard I try, I can’t will it to.
Those are the days I feel small. But more importantly, those are the times that I feel safe. There are very few people I would let see me that way. Very few I would let see me physically fall and cry. Emotionally I let people support me. But in the physical, I am very embarrassed by these moments of sick me. It isn’t cute or sexy or smart or young. I look crippled in the ugliest of senses and I keep people away. Conversely, I think there are very few people who feel safe with their doctors. What I have is special.
It's almost like my body holds on until I get behind his door and I collapse. He put me on a chair and pulled it to his. He hit my reflex thingy in my right knee and my leg was sent into hyperactive jerking motions, my thigh muscles were contracting and crazy spastic. Every muscle in that leg was quivering.
Moments like these scare the bejeezus out of me. It is an out of body experience when I watch my body react in these ways. It is like I’m staring at someone else. I hover over myself and think, This shit is scary? I feel so bad for this woman! To balance the heavy and the fear I grabbed that reflex thingy and hit him hard in the knee. He didn’t laugh. He said I’m in a flare-up. Time for IV steroids at home for a week to stop the inflammation. I told him no. They hurt my body more than the help. I made a vow in September that I would never put my body through that again and I’m keeping it. Anselmi totally respected my choice.
I just want to say this about doctors and choosing a doctor. Besides that other guy being smug, this was a red flag-he didn’t give me any options. He gave me, “You have MS you will start Avonex in a couple weeks.” A good doctor gives you options. Anselmi sat and talked with with me for hours about all the different avenues we could take. He sent me home to think about it. He was caught up, he knew his stuff and didn’t tell me what to do—just gave me the options. When I ask him what he would choose, he tells me.
For the record, I thought there wasn’t a good reason to see another doctor, but thank God I did. The smug doctor who acted like I had a cold never thought to order an MRI of my spine. Anselmi did. My spine is the worst part of my disease-if I hadn’t been treated for it I would undoubtedly be in a wheelchair today. If you are sifting through doctors and need help—this is a good place to start distinguishing. A good doctor lays out all of your choices. The second element is cowboy boots. All good doctors wear cowboy boots.
PS-In happier news, my blog was featured in TypePad's Blogs That Rock! It was so much better than roids! Thank you Type Pad peeps.
