My Very Own Personal Apocalypse, Part 2

September 12, 2014

Dear friends, family and constant readers,

In Part 1 of this post, "My Very Own Personal Apocalypse," I shared the story of when I became ill with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome thirteen years ago, and how dramatically it changed the course of my life.  In this second portion, I will share with you the journey from becoming ill to diagnosis - i.e., knowing what exactly was making me so sick.

So I became seriously ill on Saturday, November 10, 2001.  Sometime the following week, I summoned up the strength to go see my doctor.  After examining me, he confirmed what I had first thought - it was just a bad case of the flu.  I was to go home, continue to rest, drink plenty of liquids and take medication for the fever and chills.  He said that if I did that, I would be as right as rain in a few days.  Well, that didn't work out for me so well.  I didn't improve.  I continued to feel as though hit by a wrecking ball.

The next week, I once more drug my weary body to the doctor's office.  The flu would have passed by now, so he was a little more concerned this visit.  He performed some tests and told me to continue to rest and await the results.  Not too long after that, he called with good news.  He had discovered the source of my malaise - I had tested positive for mononucleosis.  At age 41, I had a case of "mono," the dreaded "kissing disease." I knew that my parishioners would have some fun at my expense with this diagnosis.  But I didn't care - at least I knew what was making me so ill.

Gradually, many of my initial symptoms receded and I was able to return to work.  I still didn't feel well, but I was well enough to go about my regular routine.  With sheer determination, I made it through the seasons of Advent and Christmas - the busiest time for a pastor of the church year.  When 2002 arrived, my condition remained the same - feeling as though I still had the "tail end" of the flu.  Though better than I had been in November, my feelings of dis-ease in body and soul troubled me.  I just wasn't myself.  I wasn't getting better.  If what I had was indeed mononucleosis, I should have been better.  What if, I asked myself, it wasn't mono after all.  What if it was something else entirely?  I decided that it was time for a second opinion.

I had all my medical records sent to another physician who was a friend of mine and someone I trusted.  I went to him for a full examination.  He was very thorough.  He went through my medical records and personal history.  He double-checked my recent tests and results.  He re-tested me for mono, and also tested me for some other likely culprits, such as tickborne illnesses like Lyme Disease and Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.  As for these latter tests, his reasoning was that since I had spent so much time outdoors the past summer and fall, I could have been bitten by a tick infected with one of these illnesses.  That seemed like a reasonable assumption to me, and confirmed my own suspicions about how I might had contracted my illness.

I went back to see this doctor again after the test results had come in.  One interesting finding was that

mono could be ruled out completely.  The test that had been used on me initially was not the most effective and had resulted in a false-positive.  I was negative for tickborne illnesses too.  I tested negative for everything for which he tested me.  From the perspective of the tests, I was the model of good health - yet there I sat in the doctor's office - aching, perspiring, running a low-grade temperature and generally feeling like crap.   So what was up with me?  What was the source of my mystery malady?

Once the doctor had ruled out the usual suspects - and then the not-so-usual suspects (testing me for the presence of cancer, etc.), he told me his conclusion.  He diagnosed me with depression, which was manifesting itself in physical symptoms.  Say what???  I wasn't depressed in the least, in my own opinion.  Sure I was feeling down emotionally about how bad I felt physically.  Surely not, I thought.  But he laid out his case for how the symptoms fit, and there was a personally history of mood disorder in my background.  He cited Occam's Razor - the hypothesis that sometimes the obvious and simple alternatives are most often the correct ones.  Therefore, if we treated the underlying depression, the physical manifestations should relent.

I was not pleased with this diagnosis.  Depression is not how I would have characterized my own life the last few months.  Before my illness, I had been enjoying life and found much satisfaction in it.  Was I in deep denial?  Was I so depressed that I couldn't even recognize it in myself?  I found that hard to believe.  But since he was the doctor - and a friend I trusted - I was willing to go along with this diagnosis and see where it took me.

Over the course of the next few months - late winter into early spring - my symptoms seemed to wax and wane.  Some days I felt closer to normal, but other days I could barely manage myself.  I never really knew what to expect from any given day.  It might begin well, but end with me crashing upon my bed.

I grew extremely frustrated as we worked through this diagnosis of depression.  Even with all the

various medications we were trying, I still was not getting any better on the whole.  So finally, I decided to consult a psychiatrist about this diagnosis.  He, too, was a friend and someone I had seen previously.  Another plus was that he was the son of a pastor himself and knew first-hand the rigours of the pastoral life.  When I met with him and shared the diagnosis that I had been given, he concurred that the physical symptoms of depression did indeed match the illness that I was experiencing.  But, he concluded, simply because they match doesn't necessarily mean that they are one in the same.  He argued that one can be depressed and still have a chronic illness.  One can also be depressed because he or she has a chronic illness.  He felt that before we could safely conclude that I was suffering from the physical manifestations of depression, we should explore my illness further to rule out other, more remote and exotic possibilities.  So he referred me to a colleague who was both a practicing psychiatrist and a physician.  If anyone could get to the root of my illness, he could!

To be concluded in, "My Very Own Personal Apocalypse, Part 3."

Cheers,

Stephen