Tag: me

All Change: A New Diagnosis

I have been sick for at least 13 years, with some symptoms going back into my childhood. At first I was told I had Post Viral Fatigue Syndrome, then later Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. (ME.) ME is also referred to as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, (CFS) although this is controversial as chronic fatigue is often a symptom of other illness. ME/CFS is a diagnosis of exclusion. That is, there is no  known cause or definitive test for it and when every other possibility is excluded the symptoms get labelled as ME. I have often wished that I had any other disease - something with a known cause, where it is not so easy for people to label you a fake or a lazy scrounger. This wish got even more intense when I went to see a psychiatrist after becoming suicidal with pain. His response was to ignore my depression and suicidal ideation and instead “diagnose” me with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, which from his point of view is a mental illness, and prescribe exercise as the cure to all my problems.

Then four years ago I became diabetic too. It wasn’t unexpected given my family history and I adapted to it pretty easily, although I resented having to change what I eat. Since I was diagnosed my diabetes has progressed rapidly and a few weeks ago I went to see a specialist because despite insulin treatment I was responding unpredictably and finding it hard to control my blood glucose. He suspected that I had a form of diabetes called MODY and had some blood samples taken for a genetic test.

On Friday I got the results of that test back and everything changed.
I don’t have MODY, I have Maternally Inherited Diabetes and Deafness. (MIDD.) It’s caused by a mutation in mitochondrial DNA (3243 tRNA), specifically 3243A>G.

I spoke to the diabetes consultant this morning and he confirmed that what I have is the mitochondrial 3243 A>G mutation. Unfortunately he is a bit clueless about the impact of that mutation outside of diabetes and he dismissed my questions about muscle pain and weakness and about issues with taking metformin. When I first saw him I had asked if my diabetes could be the cause of the muscle pain and burning pain that I have had for years, but he was adamant that it could not be, especially since I have been diagnosed with ME for much longer than I have had diabetes. He said that he had a couple of other patients with MIDD and they had no pain so that was that.

Apart from diabetes and deafness (The deafness part is only about 75% of cases) MIDD is associated with some other symptoms. From the information sheet at the Diabetes Genes website:

Myopathy (Muscle weakness): muscle problems of either weakness or cramps may be present in around 40% of cases of MIDD.  This generally involves proximal muscles (shoulders, buttocks and thighs) which are used when climbing stairs and presents as exercise induced muscle cramps or weakness.

 And

Metformin, a commonly used treatment in diabetes is probably best avoided as Metformin is known to interfere with mitochondrial function and the risk of lactic acidosis may be increased although this has not been reported to date.

From looking at what other people with this condition have said the pain and weakness is rather understated in the above quote. The following is typical of what is actually reported.

I’ve been feeling so, so tired recently with aching legs, and I can barely get out of bed and get dressed some days, most of the time I just want to lie on the sofa and sleep. I knew MIDD could make you tired after exercise, but I didn’t realise it could make you so fatigued after not doing anything at all!

Turning to The NHS Rare Mitochondrial Disease Service for more information I found this under General Information > Exercise

Because in mitochondrial disease the cells cannot make ATP in sufficient quantity, anything that requires a lot of ATP such as exercising a muscle will mean that the body will not be able to keep up with demand. This has two main effects; firstly the muscle will become tired sooner than normal and secondly the muscle makes other compounds such as lactic acid in an attempt to keep up with energy demand. This can lead to pain and cramp in the muscles and patients often feel “like they have run a marathon” even after only moderate exercise. The temptation is to avoid all exercise so that you never get to this stage, but this is not recommended for two reasons. Firstly, it is important for general fitness to exercise and as well as exercising the muscles it is important to keep the heart and circulation healthy. Secondly, there is good evidence that if you become very unfit this will adversely affect your muscles. In many patients’ muscles there is a mixture of good and bad mitochondria and the hope is that exercise can increase the good mitochondria, boosting the level of ATP back to normal and so avoiding symptoms. At this stage this remains just a theory and there are large trials looking in to this idea. At the present time our advice is to exercise regularly at a level that feels comfortable, but without pushing yourself to the point that your muscles become painful.

But that’s not all. The Rare Mitochondrial Disease Service has another perspective on the 3243A>G mutation. It is responsible for a condition called Mitochondrial Encephalomyopathy, Lactic Acidosis and Stroke-like episodes (MELAS). And it’s scaring the shit out of me.

The clinical features associated with this mutation can, as stated above, be very variable. We have a number of individuals who clearly carry the mutation who are completely asymptomatic. Other patients have very, very mild symptoms perhaps with a tendency to have diabetes or very mild deafness requiring no treatment. These patients might not be aware that they had the mutation apart from the fact that they were family members of somebody who had more serious disease. Some people with the 3243A>G mutation, also develop diabetes and deafness ultimately requiring the use of a hearing aid or requiring insulin to control their diabetes. Other patients have more severe involvement with muscle weakness sometimes affecting the peripheral muscles and sometimes affecting the muscles around the eyes. Finally there is a group of patients who do develop the MELAS syndrome, which is associated with episodes of encephalopathy . Encephalopathy is really the medical term for an episode that disturbs brain function. These disturbances can take the form of stroke- like episodes and/or seizures. This is a much more troublesome and difficult group of symptoms to control and clearly have a significant effect on people’s lifestyle.

My next step is to see my GP to talk about what all of this means for me and I will ask for a referral to the mitochondrial disease service. Unfortunately my GP is away this week so I will have to wait before I can sort anything out.
I thought finding proof of what is wrong with me would be a relief, but it’s not. Acceptance of my old diagnosis has given way to panic about my new one. All I have is questions swirling round and round in my head. The thought that keeps hitting me is that I wasn’t making this up. I wasn’t imagining it. People have been throwing out accusations and belittling my illness for so long that I had almost convinced myself I was a lazy fake, questioning if symptoms were real or just my brain tricking me. And now I know I’m not imagining it. There’s proof, right there on paper, but I almost don’t believe it. I want to feel relief but all I feel is grief.

Embarrassed to be me

Sometimes I have to use a walking stick. I walk with a stick because sometimes the pain is too much to put weight on my legs, or my muscles are too weak to hold me up, or I am too dizzy and lack the balance to remain upright. I especially need the stick when I am standing still as without it I can fall over due to all of the above.

I hate my walking stick.

I hate it because it is awkward to use.

I hate it because it prevents me carrying anything with that hand.

I hate it because it stops me holding hands with my wife.

I hate it because it is noisy on the pavement.

I hate it because it allows me to walk further when I should stop and rest.

I hate it because it transfers the pain from my legs to my hands and arms and back.

But most of all, I hate my walking stick because it is a symbol of my weakness. It is a sign to anyone that sees it that I am sick. Weak. I feel self-conscious when I use it, because people look at the stick and judge me. Many of them see a thirty-something man with no visible problems using a walking stick and decide that I don’t need it. Some of them assume that I use a stick in order to look sick to get benefits. (Even when I wasn’t on benefits.) Some of them actually question my use of it, and in the worst case, verbally attack me, even swearing at me.

So I leave my stick at home. That doesn’t work out so well, because what happens is that I walk all the way to the doctor, the pharmacy or the shops without too much of a problem apart from stopping to lean on a wall every so often. Then comes the problem. I get tired. I get pain. I am out, ten minutes walk from home, rapidly losing the ability to stay upright, and I don’t have a walking stick. Having to ask for a chair and stop for a fifteen minute rest in a shop is even more embarrassing than using a walking stick in the first place.

I have got around the problem of not having my walking stick when I need it by using a folding stick which can fit in the (large) pocket of my trenchcoat or in my bag. It’s still a pain to carry around so I don’t always take it, but it’s better than never taking it. I can also surprise people by pulling the stick out of my pocket suddenly and having it click together in a most satisfying way!

Given my embarrassment at using the stick, you can imagine what I think about using a wheelchair. I’ve never used one but the thought fills me with fear. Fear of what people will think, especially if I get out of it occasionally when I have no need to be in it. People do not understand that health problems are variable and that it is possible to need a stick or a chair on some occasions and not others. Or that I could use a wheelchair for a journey but walk around inside the building at the end of it.

I was thinking about all of this again because I have been offered an electric wheelchair that used to belong to a family member. My immediate response is NO NO NO but actually that is stupid of me. There are many times when it would be useful to have one, and there are plenty of occasions when I could actually use it to get around the house. There are times at the moment where I cannot get from the bed to the bathroom or the kitchen, and so I go without food and drink until someone can arrive and help me. I will soon be living several miles from my nearest helper rather than next door, but with an electric wheelchair I could get food and drink several hours earlier than I would otherwise. I might even get more hours in the day because I would start to feel better earlier.

I have to learn not to be embarrassed to be me.

 

All in my head

In one of those odd random blips of popularity, my description of M.E. has been circulating around twitter and Facebook today. I found it quite interesting to read the way people described what I had written. People identified with it, and said that I had described the symptoms well. I found that comforting, in a way, because their identification with it means I haven’t imagined everything. When enough people tell you your illness is all in your head, it’s hard not to question if it is. Even to the point of wondering whether I’m saying I need to rest because I really need to, or because I’m lazy.

M.E. has a long history of controversy. Until very recently, no physical markers have been found for it. Diagnosis has been based on description of the symptoms and by ruling out everything else. Because there is no way to be certain of the diagnosis, public attitude to M.E. has been poor. Names such as “Yuppie Flu” are derisive and contribute to the attitude that people with M.E. are simply faking their illness, and are lazy or work-shy.

Many doctors have held the opinion that M.E. is a mental illness. They conclude that the fatigue and the pain are due to depression, and hold the belief that only therapy such as CBT and a slow increase in activity is necessary to cure the patient. In actual fact, the World Health Organisation classifies M.E. as a neurological disorder under Diseases of the Nervous System, G93.3. The Department of Work and Pensions also categorically states the CFS/ME is physical. Despite this classification, many doctors still believe that M.E. is purely a mental illness.

What is the impact of this belief? One of the defining features of M.E. is that fatigue is not explained by exertion, and in fact is out of all proportion to any activity. In my experience, the best management strategy for M.E. is Pacing. It involves making an effort to stick to a timetable of rests and a set level of activity, and working out how much activity can be undertaken and how much rest is necessary by gradually increasing activity until the maximum level is found, and staying at that level. If pushed into too much activity a person with M.E. will “crash” and may be completely incapacitated for a long time. The standard treatment for M.E. as a mental illness is CBT or GET which will push a person far beyond their safe limits.

Treating M.E. as a mental illness also appears to attach a stigma to it that just shouldn’t be there. Suppose for a moment that M.E. actually is a symptom of severe depression. It may change the treatment, but would it change anything else about the abilities of a person suffering from it? Would it mean that it was OK to tell someone “it’s all in your head” and “snap out of it”? Of course it wouldn’t. Depression itself is a real illness, needing treatment and medicine. Someone with depression cannot simply “snap out of it.” There are M.E. sufferers who are also depressed - I am one of them - but it is important to distinguish one from the other. I have had M.E. for ten years, and depression for a few months. It would be surprising if I didn’t get depressed at some point given the situation I am in.

If I could choose to be better, I would. Of course I would. I’m currently useless, stuck at home, in bed most of the time, my business is failing because I can’t work, I can’t even do any housework. I WANT to be well. I want to be rid of the crippling pain, the migraines, the dizziness, the insomnia. I want to be able to walk, to run, to ride my motorbike. So don’t you ever tell me to snap out of it. I might just have to beat you with my walking stick, just as soon as I find the energy.

A morning with ME

I wake, I think. At this point it is hard to tell. I am lying on my front with my head pointed towards my bedside table. I try to lift my head to see the clock but I can’t. I fall back into semi-consciousness and doze for a while. It’s better than facing the pain.

I stir again. I still cannot lift my head, but my arm almost works. I reach for my phone. 9:20. I have had maybe five hours sleep. A good night. I notice the tweetdeck symbol. “5 messages about me.” I click to see them but consciousness deserts me and the phone falls out of my grasp.

10am. I wake with a start. My clock is beeping, its simulated sunrise glaring in my face. It did not wake me slowly, instead the beeping alarm hits my skull like a road drill and the sunrise light burns my eyes like being next to a real sun. My phone alarm joins in. Beep beep beep beep THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. I try to reach for the alarm and eventually hit the button. The phone is next, and I manage to swipe the unlock pattern on the fourth try. Then I attempt to turn over. Pain hits every part of me. Crushing weight bears down on me. I shove against the bed as hard as I can and drag myself on to my back, my legs following almost lifelessly. I gasp in pain and fall back on the bed.

Blank. Then wake. The sunrise lamp still burns me. I reach for it, managing eventually to hold the dimmer button until it goes dark.

Pain. I remain awake though, so I reach for my phone and load tweetdeck. I cannot speak, can barely move but the digital world responds to me. I can manage to type messages and feel connected to the world that way at least.

The cat wakes and walks over to me. She purrs loudly. I try to stroke her, my arm falling back to the bed. The cat is not happy. She headbutts my hand several times in an attempt to get more attention. Then, horror, she pushes me with a cold damp nose. I have no energy to wipe my hand. The cat leaves in disgust.

My wife comes in to the room to see if I am awake. She asks if I want coffee. I cannot answer, my words won’t form. I know what I want to say, but have no strength to say it. I answer, but too quietly. I try again. “Yes”, I manage to force out. As she leaves I remember my painkillers. I sit up, with huge effort. My legs still won’t follow. Packet. Pop out pills. They won’t go. I summon more effort. It hurts, but the tablets emerge from the packet. Glass of water. Am I holding it tightly enough? I manage not to drop it, and swallow my pills.

My wife comes back with my coffee but I have fallen back on the bed. A few minutes later I find the strength to pick up my phone and reconnect with the online world. I try to reach for the coffee but I can’t sit up enough to drink it. Eventually I manage to sit up enough, and even to adjust my pillow behind me. I drink the coffee.

I think about how a healthy person must view me, how lazy they would think I am. ME? Load of rubbish. Snap out of it and get a job you lazy bastard! I decide that I must write this narrative. Perhaps I can raise awareness of the reality of this crippling disease, change a few minds.

And so, I type this, my phone propped on my chest, my head barely lifted by my pillow. My legs scream at me in pain. My hands tingle with pins and needles, too much typing, held in one position too long. My wife brings me a coffee refill but I feel too sick to drink it. Time for unconsciousness again, I hope.