Here’s something hilarious: I had my follow-up tests and consultation with the nephrologist who’s been investigating my stage 2 kidney disease that showed up on pre-infusion blood tests results over a year ago. After much/no/undetermined consideration, he said the following:

“I don’t think you have kidney disease.”

Yippee! Right? RIGHT?

Except, he led with, “You have a small baby at home?”

NOPE. He also said, “I don’t really work here.” And to my questioning look: “I mean, I’m only here part time.”

Now listen. I don’t want kidney disease. But c’mon. After the small baby inquiry, I made him confirm he was looking at the right person’s chart, and still my test results seem fine to him. I haven’t gotten my ultrasound results (which he suggested maybe my primary care doc could share cuz, ya know, he doesn’t really work here), but he’s pretty sure they’ll be fine.

I’d venture to say that most, if not all, of us have experienced some fuckery around diagnoses. Sometimes it’s just due to the limits of modern medicine, sometimes it’s the all-too-human doctor, and sometimes both. No matter the cause, it’s infuriating, even if the fuckery eventually works in oour favor.

Even without other tomfoolery, having a chronic illness (or two or three) is fertile ground for both despair and anger. I’m just starting to learn more about the polyvagal theory of our nervous system, which is giving me an understanding of different states of being. From what I’ve gleaned so far, there’s a calm, connected state that’s comfy and cozy—and sometimes hard to come by (ventral). There’s a frozen, immobile state (dorsal) that’s akin to depression or despair. And there’s the activated, anxious, mobilized state (sympathetic). Of course, there are also hybrid states, trauma implications, etc. I don’t know a lot, yet. But from the little I’ve learned, I know that in my current state of overwhelm at the totally totalitarian, 1984, Handmaid’s Tale, Oryx and Crake state of things, my lil’ nervous system would really prefer to just lie down, stare at a blank wall, and leak salty tears of despair.

I kinda think that’s part of The Plan (you know, the one that’s in motion right now). And I’m so fucking tired. But I also have a daughter who somehow still seems hopeful and excited about her future. So lying down and leaking isn’t an option. And that’s why I’m trying to stay angry.

Even the words make sense: “sympathetic” and “mobilized.” While I only have a tiny trickle of energy, I’d rather expend it on rage rather than despair. And it might mean I need more rest right now, to compensate. Dorsal moments. That’s fine. But I’m not going to stay there.

To inspire this ongoing endeavor, I’ve done what I do: created a rage-based playlist. It’s on Spotify, and I’m pissed that them for hosting the perp known as Andrew Tate, but all these corporations are built on a broken system, so I’ll work on that next. For now, I’ve made a playlist on a platform that hosts perps who glorify pimping. Just makes me all the angrier.

Of course, it has loud, shout-y songs. But that’s not all it has. Here’s a sampling:

You Should See Me in a Crown - Billie Eilish

Devil’s in the Details - Walter Sickert & the Army of Broken Toys

Rich White Straight Men - Kesha

God’s Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash

American Healthcare - Penelope Scott

Corporation - Jack White

Turntables - Janelle Monáe

Come & Get It - Grassfire

Dies Irae - Mozart

Sh!tshow - Miracle Archives (I can’t suss out if this is created with AI or other editing, but it’s works)

I’ll likely keep adding to the playlist over time. Keep fueling. Whether its dismissive docs with a suspect un-diagnosis or those with power driven by the bleakest, most soulless facets of human nature, the absence of empathy (which is becoming one of those words, btw) is dangerous. And in the face of danger, our nervous systems have to make a choice. I’ll have to rest, to be sure. But this chronically ill, gimpy-ass, medium-aged, exhausted White lady with a cane is not going down without a fight. Because before MS, before trauma, she was a feisty, spunky little girl who ran fast, climbed high, and got dirty. In the words of Jack White from “Corporation”:

Who’s with me?

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