Thirty years ago — I was thirty-eight — I pastored Our Father’s House in West Unity, Ohio. As Polly and our children will attest, I was a busy preacher, a workaholic who rarely took time off from the ministerial grind. In the summer of 1995, I started feeling tired all the time. I wasn’t sleeping. My muscles ached. I wondered, “What is wrong with me?”
I sought out the care of a primary care doctor in Defiance, Ohio, who gave me a half-assed exam, drew no blood, and decided that my real problem is that I was depressed over my mom’s death FOUR YEARS EARLIER! That, of course, was so far from the truth that it wasn’t funny. I told this medical school reject that I wasn’t depressed. My body hurt, and I needed to figure out why.
The next year, I saw a primary care doctor in Bryan, Ohio. This man is still my doctor to this day. After months of examinations, tests, and research, he concluded that I have fibromyalgia. The past thirty years have proven this diagnosis to be true. Over the years, other diagnoses were added to my chart: gastroparesis, endocrine pancreatic insufficiency, osteoarthritis, and degenerative spine disease — all incurable. All doctors can do for me is treat my symptoms — to varying degrees of success.
There are other health problems that I have given up on. I have been to numerous specialists, each concluding that they don’t know what’s wrong with me. I asked one doctor what I should do next. All I got was a shoulder shrug and an “I don’t know.” My primary care doctor told me that I am an enigma to him. I am oh-so-special, right?
Americans want to believe that doctors are miracle workers. They are not. Skilled, competent practitioners of medicine? You bet. But miracle workers they are not. They all have patients like me, people they can’t do much for much for. This is especially true for chronic pain sufferers. I saw a neurosurgeon last week. More surgery may be on the horizon, though I am weighing whether I want to have it. I asked him about the severe neuropathic pain in my legs. Unbearable, at times, to say the least. He bluntly told me, “No, there’s really nothing that can be done for your pain.” Of course, I already knew that. I know my body inside and out. When doctors tell me something I don’t know, I go home and research the hell out of the subject. I know that there’s not much that can be done for neuropathic pain. Live with it, or die. Some days, the latter seems preferable.
I have an EMG (electromyography) scheduled next week. The neurosurgeon wants to see if he can pinpoint the locus of my neuropathic pain. I am not optimistic that anything will come from this, but since I have never had an EMG on my legs, I thought it would be a good idea to have the test done. Maybe a miracle diagnosis awaits, right?
Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
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