On a Sunday evening last December, my husband and I were watching “Dexter” when my lower back started to ache. We’d been putting up Christmas lights outside, so I figured I must’ve overdone it, and went and got the heating pad. As I laid on the couch watching the show, the pain started to worsen and began to spread to my abdomen. Okay, I thought, it’s about that time of the month. Lower back pain and cramps are par for the course, although these were a little worse than usual.
It got so bad so fast that within minutes I was curled up in a ball on the couch. I had to pause the show mid-scene because I couldn’t focus on it anymore (thank goodness for DVRs). I couldn’t focus on anything but the pain, which had settled in the right side of my pelvis and felt like something was trying to chew its way out of me with sharp little teeth. My husband, who has his EMT certification for his job, says he told me, several times, that I should go to the hospital, but I don’t remember this. I probably didn’t even hear him, although I did ask him at one point if there was anything in that part of the body that could kill me. He said it might be appendicitis, and that time at least I do remember him mentioning the hospital.
When he described appendicitis to me I was pretty sure that wasn’t it because the pain wasn’t in the right place, so instead of the hospital, I went into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I’d heard those stories where someone goes to the emergency room in a panic and it turns out to be heartburn or gas pain. I didn’t want to be one of those people who made a big deal over nothing. I didn’t want to be a joke. I started vomiting, but that didn’t mean anything; sometimes my migraines made me throw up, that wasn’t reason to go to the hospital. I was, believe it or not, worried what people would think of me. I was afraid they would think I was a hypochondriac; that I was pathetic to think this was painful; that I was stupid to think it might be serious. That was why I asked if it was something that could kill me: because if it wasn’t life or death I was willing, for a while at least, to live with the pain rather than risk the possibility that strangers might judge me and find me lacking.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity but was probably more like a half hour or so, I gave in and agreed to go to the emergency room. Luckily we live in a city that’s big enough to have its own hospital, but small enough that there’s hardly ever anybody in the emergency room, so I was in a private room talking to a doctor relatively quickly. He was pretty sure it was a kidney stone, but they had to run some tests to make sure. Because I have a bad relationship with NSAIDs, he had the nurse give me some morphine, and finally I was able to get some relief. As I lay there waiting, all I could think was, I hope there’s really something wrong with me. I felt like a kid waiting for a test to be graded, like the doctor was going to come back and say I’d failed, I really was a crybaby after all, coming in saying I was 9 out of 10 on the pain scale and using up their morphine for no good reason. I didn’t want to have a kidney stone, but since I was already there, since I was already in pain, I wanted my misery to be justified. I wanted them to tell me that yes, this was a legitimate reason to come to the hospital.
It was. I did have a kidney stone. They wheeled me up to get a CAT scan, then gave me a prescription for Vicodin, a sheaf of instructions and a little strainer to catch the stone when it passed, and sent me home. The weird thing was, I still felt like it wasn’t real, like they were just humoring me. I still doubted myself. It wasn’t until I actually saw the stone, and went to the urologist and saw the CAT scan, that I really believed it. How sad is that? Why couldn’t I believe my own body? Why couldn’t I trust myself that I wasn’t blowing things out of proportion, I wasn’t overreacting? I didn’t have a history of running to the emergency room for every twinge or muscle ache. The fact that my husband was telling me to go should have been enough to move me past my doubt, but even if he hadn’t been, even if I had been home alone, I should have had the strength to make that decision on my own as soon as the pain went beyond my normal threshold. It wasn’t weak or stupid to go the hospital; letting doubt and fear prevent me from going sooner was.
So I’m trying to see this as a wake up call, not just for my health, but for my writing, and my life in general. I suffered longer than I needed to because I doubted myself and because I was worried about what other people would think of me. I need to learn to trust myself and stop caring so much about other peoples’ opinions. These are lessons life has tried to teach me many times over the years, but apparently I needed to be hit over the head (or in the kidneys) with them. Hopefully I’ve finally learned them, because I’m afraid to see what form the lessons might take next time around!
Do you suffer from self doubt? Here are some resources that might help you deal with it (when you’re not dealing with a kidney stone!):
7 Simple Steps to Conquering Self Doubt
5 Great Ways to Conquer Self Doubt
If you have any resources or tips that work for you, please share in the comments!
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