I have lived with a terrorist for over three years. It’s not the human variety, so banish your dark thoughts about my husband. My wonderful man would rescue me by any means he could. He’s a great sidekick. He’s got my back. Further, he’d step in front of me to swashbuckle any demonic force. He feels badly that he can’t help me conquer the terrorist that mars my daily life.
My self-esteem has been undermined by the lack of control I have over my limbs. They shake, rattle, and roll anytime, anywhere. My body has turned its back on me and doesn’t even seem to feel sorry. Other people feel sorry for me, offering prayers and hugs to comfort my soul. But none of these soothing methods solves the problem. In an attempt at jest, I call myself a “Cool Jerk.”
I’m special due to my private earthquakes – though never private summers, aka hot flashes. Yay!
I’ve visited numerous doctors without joy when I leave their offices. No diagnosis, no effective treatment suggestions. I even received an insult from a neurologist when he referred me to a shrink because – his only two potential diagnoses denied by a normal EEG – he assumed that the cause was psychogenic. Because my husband was present I did not wring his neck. I reported him to the hospital’s patient relations.
Should I bad-mouth him on Yelp?
So I’m re-making the rounds, prioritizing doctors who have a reputation for listening and robust problem-solving. I’m hoping all three will empathize with my predicament rather than judge me as a hysterical female. My loyal husband will accompany me: to be a second listener, to verify my reality, and to support me as needed (to the doc who suggested that I needed to stretch, my husband’s defense was quick).
He is a staple of my life as a miracle.
“To have and to hold…”
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