Doctors Are Not Gods
In the months following that last run on April 26, 2015, I
fell into a deeper and deeper state of desperation, anguish, gloom, and finally
hopelessness. I knew that something was
eating away at my body, but I had no idea what it was. Repeated trips to my primary care physician every
time I dipped into a deeper state of pain and swelling yielded nothing
positive. A referral to an orthopedic
surgeon resulted in an MRI which revealed every -osis and -itis known to man
just in my left foot and shin alone, which is where the worst of the
manifestations were accumulating. But similar
symptoms were happening all over. My
hands, my elbow, my shoulder were all in pain all the time. It didn’t help that I had a traveling job
which required weekly trips to the airport pulling a suitcase and carrying a
laptop, then flying coast to coast. It
took all the energy I could muster just to get out of bed, get dressed, drive
to the airport, walk to a gate, and then to spend the week conducting business
as usual. There was no way I could run,
and even on those rare occasions when I would try to walk a mile or so, I paid
dearly for it for the next few days.
On the evening of August 30th, 2015, just about
two months from my 60th birthday, my wife Kelli and I took our three
grandkids to a minor league ballgame, which should have been a simple and
joyful task. It wasn’t either for me. While
Kelli stayed with the youngest, I took the two older ones to a small bounce
park area down the left field foul line.
My feet hurt so badly that just standing was excruciating. I could hardly walk, and my hands were in so
much pain that I could not even pick up my littlest grandson, who was all of
about three years old at the time.
Limping back to the car after the game, which ended up being a journey
of about 20 minutes, my feet were so swelled up and inflamed that I ended up going
to an Urgent Care Center the next morning.
The provider took one look at my feet, and asked “Have you
been tested for Lyme Disease?” For whatever reason, this was something that had
been overlooked by my PCP, so a Western Blot test was done immediately. Without going into a lot of detail, a Western
Blot test can be used as a confirmatory test for Lyme disease. I was not the ideal candidate for contracting
Lyme. For one thing, I am not the real
outdoorsman. I never run trails or spend
time in the woods. I am definitely not
the camping type. In addition, I learned
that most experts felt that Lyme Disease did not even exist in the Southern
United States, but was pretty much confined to the Northeast quadrant.
When I got the call two days later with the results showing
that one of my titer levels had tested positive and that I did indeed have
Lymes, I was both surprised, but for the first time in several months, hopeful that
there might be a treatment to get me back to normal. I was instantly started on a 30-day regimen of
antibiotics, and was expecting that over time the swelling would go down, the
pain would evaporate, and I would start to get my energy level back to normal. But that didn’t happen. There was no improvement at all. As I started to dig into doing more research on
the disease and how it manifests, I became less and less optimistic of a
positive outcome.
From everything I was reading, it seemed that the key to
responding to treatment was to catch it early, but I had already been dealing
with it for four months before a positive diagnosis was made. If not treated immediately, Lyme Disease can evolve
into a chronic condition which is much more difficult, or even nonresponsive to
treatment. I also learned that one of my
running heroes, Bart Yasso, had succumbed to Chronic Lyme Disease in the 90s
and has lived with it ever since. I
reached out to him immediately, and of all the things he said, the one that stuck
with me was “I live in pain every day of my life.” This was not exactly what I wanted
to hear. For the next couple of months, there was no sign of improvement.
My 60th birthday felt like it was my 90th. My quality of life had become so bad that facing
a new day was a major task. I was
reading about how people with Chronic Lyme Disease could easily start having
mental health issues and I totally got it.
I felt like my health was still deteriorating at a rapid pace, and could
not imagine living another 20 or 30 years this way or even declining more as I
went. The pains were now moving into my
hips and up my neck, making it even difficult to turn my head from one side to
the other. How much worse could it get?
Constant words of encouragement from friends and family that
I would eventually be ok were of little consolation. I was thinking I might have to quit my job,
which I loved, simply due to the physical requirements which up until a half a
year earlier were simple routine daily tasks.
It wasn’t fair. I had dedicated
my entire adult life to fitness and good health decisions. Granted, I wasn’t obsessed with health. I have a weakness for good beer and salty
snacks, and don’t always make the best food choices. But running had been a part of my life for
the past 33 years, and this should be happening to me.
I am not sure why, but I went back and did a little more
research on that Western Blot test I had done at the Urgent Care Clinic, and quickly
discovered something unexpected.
Everything I read pointed to the fact that at least two titer panels
needed to be positive in order to unquestionably identify Lyme Disease. My results only had one. In other words, my test results may have been
read incorrectly. Further review verified
that whatever I was dealing with WAS NOT Lyme Disease. But it was something.
I can’t say this revelation made me feel any better. Something was still eating away at me, and
now, after a half a year of struggles and declining health, I was back to no
clue and little hope.
Next Up: Starting Over
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