WHY?

I feel as though a microscopic circus has pitched its tent inside my body. The band obviously forgot their drums and is using my head for a surrogate, banging incessantly in convoluted rhythms. My muscles are twitching and jumping like demented circus poodles, and that blasted clown car is peeling rubber along the scenic byways of my brain. The Lipizzaner stallions must be on the loose, too, flailing away at my muscles.

Surely I look like road kill, since that’s how I feel. Then my physician rushes in and proclaims, “You’re looking much better.’’ After a cursory examination, punctuated by my litany of woes, he advises me to do more aerobic exercise. I make some crack about tripping over my cane and running into walls while trying to keep up with Jane Fonda. Actually, I abandoned such difficult workouts years ago. The doctor, totally exasperated, sputters, "I’m beginning to think you don’t want to get better."

Since that hurtful day, I have often asked myself, "Why would I want to get stuck with such a lousy disease as CFIDS?" This question easily leads to a long list of whys.

Why would I select a disease which makes it difficult to fully participate in my family’s lives? AI hate being a party pooper, leaving early from company outings and family picnics. PTA and music boosters would have been fun, too, pushing cheese and sausages onto unsuspecting relatives to raise money for that new tuba, trombone, or tambourine.

Why would I decide to live in pain? One medical student had the audacity to laugh and inform me that I had no pain. Then she literally danced around me with excitement, insisting, "You’re hearing voices, aren’t you? You’re hallucinating, too!" The only voice I was hearing belonged t my conscience, warning me that if I sat on this pip-squeak doctor wannabe, I’d condemn myself to a straight jacket for sure. (And believe me, I am not a dainty woman, so pinning her miserable little carcass to the floor would have been a snap.)

Well, at least one problem is solved. My pain doesn’t exist, therefore, I can just ignore those unpleasant sensations that I am merely hallucinating.

Why would I elect to lie awake half the night when my body is so starved for sleep? My deepest gratitude goes to Dr. Charles Lapp for prescribing medications which allow a deep, restful sleep and boost morning energy levels. Hallelujah! No more “Gilligan’s Island” reruns in the middle of the night.

Why would I choose to forget what I’m saying in the middle of a sentence, reverse words, or become so easily confused? When neurons in my electrically challenged brain go on strike, I’ll say or do the most ridiculous things. I may find myself searching the microwave for dog food while Penny, impatient to be fed, snorts with indignation. Then when the dryer buzzes, I’ll check out the freezer, looking for clean clothes. Things could be worse; I could have frozen the clothes and nuked the poodle.

Why would I give up my favorite scents: sweet smelling shampoos, perfumes, and soaps? At department stores, I used to spritz various potions here and there, searching for the perfect fragrance. Now thanks to my revved up immune system, fouled up limbic system, or whatever, one whiff of the wrong scent can send me off to never-never land. Why would I subject myself to humiliating visits with disbelieving doctors? Doctor A: "You’re not sick. Your bra strap is just too tight. I'm going to prescribe some medication." Translation: "I’m going to give you a strong anti-psychotic drug that will knock you on your tokhes."

Doctor B: "Floor wax makes you sick?" He cleared his throat, coughed, and then looked at me as if thinking, "Get the net for this one, boys; she’s clearly delusional." When he finally spoke again, he asked, "You take vitamins and minerals?" spitting the words out distastefully as if I’d told him I regularly consume hairballs and dust bunnies. "Nobody needs supplements to stay healthy." He coughed again, his face a sickly pallor. He referred me to an allergist and neurologist who treated me with respect and consideration but admitted they didn’t know how to help.

During my final appointment with Doctor B, he expressed disbelief that the referral physicians had not labeled me a hypochondriac. Then he asked me to walk toward him. I staggered across the floor, shaking with weakness. He literally screamed, "Stop that! Quit shaking!" After his temper tantrum subsided, he suggested I see a psychiatrist who could hypnotize me. I could have suggested that he stick his stethoscope up his nose. Furthermore, I could have threatened to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his scrawny neck and squeeze that little bulb until his face turned a lovely shade of purple. Instead, feeling totally bereft and worthless, I stumbles out to my car.

There really are many fine physicians out there, so if you have been victimized by a Doctor A or B, or a doctor wannabe, keep on looking. Just don’t resort to frequenting back rooms where Dr. Con U Good anoints his patients with motor oil, wailing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” while tossing mothballs into a vat of bat wings flavored with eye of newt. (No, not Gingrich!)

Why would I choose to test a gazillion different diets in a effort to heal myself? There were low carbohydrate diets and high carbohydrate diets, plus others that rotated, eliminated, cleansed, or purged. Some diets touted such foul fare that a starved old buzzard circling the desert for years in search of an edible morsel wouldn’t touch the stuff.

Why would I desire an affliction so weird that someone would consider me possessed? Believe it or not, a former friend dropped by and suggested that very possibility. Well, let’s see now, have I ever spewed out green pea soup like that unfortunate waif in The Exorcist? Her head had a tendency to twirl a lot, too. Has my head spun around recently? Not unless you count that dizzy spell I had last Saturday. I was too dumbfounded to utter a word in my defense.