Wrapping My Head Around It

As I ruminate about all the things that have happened to me over the last nearly 70 years, I find myself asking why, answering that question, reasoning through it all and, in the end, realizing I’m the only one who knows both why and how to fix some of it. I have to accept other parts of it.

First and foremost, because very few others are around me who have been here most of my life, ignorance is prevalent. It’s not others’ fault. It’s more my fault for not telling them about my past issues. The remedy? Talk. Tell others, especially medical personnel. In my life only one doctor ever had a problem with my explanations. He was from a foreign country and had an unfortunate attitude, exacerbated by the cultural norms in which he was raised. I was glad to move away and receive a different bank of doctors. Now it’s definitely the fact that I haven’t talked enough about my medical history, not because they don’t listen.

Second, I am not a fan of experimentation with medicines OR procedures. One must never assume I’ll do something or take something without my own researching it and talking about it thoroughly. Examples: the surgically inserted ICD mistake and the chemo fiasco later.

I have high blood pressure. I had a heart murmur thankfully corrected by a new heart valve. I was diagnosed with a form of HFA at an early age. I have an autoimmune disorder connected to my lymph system. All of it appears to still make medical specialists want to experiment with me.

I make a lousy test subject for anything. I’m too smart and thus I research everything. I’ve spent just enough of my life in medicine to question everything and everyone. I just don’t accept anything at face value. Those who do just aren’t smart.

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