- Joined
- Dec 26, 2012
- Messages
- 12
The past 14 years have been hell, okay... maybe not the past 14 but certainly the past 7.
I was diagnosed on my 13th birthday after being sick for about 6 months before hand. Before I was diagnosed, I was defecating pure blood about 15 times a day. My sisters and I would have to battle for the bathroom to get ready for school. I kept telling my mother I was sick, and she kept insisting that it was probably just stress. I went to school for the first day of 8th grade, but not the second. I went on the third and kept blacking out so I went to the nurse. She insisted that somehow I was faking the 104 degree fever and needed to go back to class. After some arguing and choice words from my group of friends, she sent me home insisting that I'd probably be expelled for my foul language. My mom takes my temp, calls the doctor, sticks me in a cold bathtub and proceeds to call the school and scream at the principal... needless to say... I didn't get expelled...
My disease was rather well managed once I started getting treated... I hated the fact that prednisone made me puffy (really makes you feel pretty at those school dances), but at least I wasn't spewing out blood from any orifice possible.
I got in a car accident at 17 and broke my neck... this took me out of remission. I had 6" of small intestine resected when I was 19 right before Christmas as a last resort. It put me into remission for a couple years. When I turned about 21, the stress from college and an abusive relationship sent it spiraling out of control. I was no longer able to see my pediatric gastro because I was too old and had been out of the practice for a couple years. I went through a trail of gastros who wouldn't listen to anything I said, couldn't put me back into remission, acknowledged this and refused to do anything about my pain... and in fact labeled me as a junkie even though I had never abused my medications or done any drugs besides marijuana on occasion (I was in pain and couldn't eat... what was I supposed to do?). This sent me into a depression spiral and I had to be put on a 72 hour hold twice... which ruined my plans of working for the government and ended up losing my full ride scholarship based on academics (not a hand out for being sick) because I spent too much time in the hospital and couldn't pass my classes.
Due to the fact that they have blown almost every vein in my arms, I had to have portocaths... they both got infected while I was hospitalized because the nurses didn't sterilize my chest properly or wear the masks. Whenever I have to get fluids I get asked when the last time I did heroin was because of the track marks on my arms from the IV's... when I answer never... they don't believe me.
Now I'm 27, on disability, engaged (can't get married because it would take away my benefits), and 7 months pregnant (I was told I couldn't get pregnant). This pregnancy has been hell. They keep doing comprehensive drug tests because they don't believe that I don't do heroin (I've never tested positive). I was on Fentanyl patches before I got pregnant and switched to Percocet when I got pregnant. I never get to see the same OB at the office I go to and none of them have the same opinion on how to take care of my Crohn's and pain. I feel lost. They have turned what is supposed to be one of the happiest times of my life into sheer hell.
I've never been to a support group because I didn't want to deal with a bunch of people complain and cry about things I handle with ease... so I'm not here for sympathy... I'm here for advice and maybe someone to vent to.
I was diagnosed on my 13th birthday after being sick for about 6 months before hand. Before I was diagnosed, I was defecating pure blood about 15 times a day. My sisters and I would have to battle for the bathroom to get ready for school. I kept telling my mother I was sick, and she kept insisting that it was probably just stress. I went to school for the first day of 8th grade, but not the second. I went on the third and kept blacking out so I went to the nurse. She insisted that somehow I was faking the 104 degree fever and needed to go back to class. After some arguing and choice words from my group of friends, she sent me home insisting that I'd probably be expelled for my foul language. My mom takes my temp, calls the doctor, sticks me in a cold bathtub and proceeds to call the school and scream at the principal... needless to say... I didn't get expelled...
My disease was rather well managed once I started getting treated... I hated the fact that prednisone made me puffy (really makes you feel pretty at those school dances), but at least I wasn't spewing out blood from any orifice possible.
I got in a car accident at 17 and broke my neck... this took me out of remission. I had 6" of small intestine resected when I was 19 right before Christmas as a last resort. It put me into remission for a couple years. When I turned about 21, the stress from college and an abusive relationship sent it spiraling out of control. I was no longer able to see my pediatric gastro because I was too old and had been out of the practice for a couple years. I went through a trail of gastros who wouldn't listen to anything I said, couldn't put me back into remission, acknowledged this and refused to do anything about my pain... and in fact labeled me as a junkie even though I had never abused my medications or done any drugs besides marijuana on occasion (I was in pain and couldn't eat... what was I supposed to do?). This sent me into a depression spiral and I had to be put on a 72 hour hold twice... which ruined my plans of working for the government and ended up losing my full ride scholarship based on academics (not a hand out for being sick) because I spent too much time in the hospital and couldn't pass my classes.
Due to the fact that they have blown almost every vein in my arms, I had to have portocaths... they both got infected while I was hospitalized because the nurses didn't sterilize my chest properly or wear the masks. Whenever I have to get fluids I get asked when the last time I did heroin was because of the track marks on my arms from the IV's... when I answer never... they don't believe me.
Now I'm 27, on disability, engaged (can't get married because it would take away my benefits), and 7 months pregnant (I was told I couldn't get pregnant). This pregnancy has been hell. They keep doing comprehensive drug tests because they don't believe that I don't do heroin (I've never tested positive). I was on Fentanyl patches before I got pregnant and switched to Percocet when I got pregnant. I never get to see the same OB at the office I go to and none of them have the same opinion on how to take care of my Crohn's and pain. I feel lost. They have turned what is supposed to be one of the happiest times of my life into sheer hell.
I've never been to a support group because I didn't want to deal with a bunch of people complain and cry about things I handle with ease... so I'm not here for sympathy... I'm here for advice and maybe someone to vent to.