My doctors think they have a diagnosis. Finally. They think this diagnosis explains everything for the last 17 years. Seventeen (!) years. That's 1/2 my life of non-diagnosis or as my family practitioner says "They diagnosed the trees and missed the forest." Fitting.
Now I get to spend the next six months in waiting rooms hoping to get this diagnosis finalized (hopefully with insurance coverage) and treatment options discussed. What do they think it is? Lupus.
I've decided "Life expectancy" is an ugly phrase. But, hey, it's way better than it was in the 60's! I just have to look out for that organ failure thing.
Worst part is, they tell me stress will only make things worse for me, but don't realize telling me that stresses me out. Heh.
Also bad (but mostly for my social anxiety) is the way people slowly move away from you when they notice you're covered in a rash and are on the verge of passing out.
And, now it's past 3, because I can't stop obsessing over verbiage.
Given the symptoms, there's speculation that I've had lupus or at least sensitivities to lupus symptoms my whole life. Great!