And so it begins...

For those of you keeping score at home, yesterday was the big day: My appointment with the mito specialist at the Cleveland Clinic. Let me begin by saying that while I certainly am glad I don't spend any more time there than I have over the years, there are things I really enjoy about the whole hospital scene. First, it's all about you. I don't mean that in an attention-getting way. I mean it in an our-main-goal-is-to-figure-out-what's-wrong-with-you way. It's the ultimate kind of customer service, really. They are thorough in their questioning, and are equally thorough in listening to your answers. The other thing I love at the hospital, although it breaks my heart, is the way it puts things into perspective. Sitting in the waiting room (this specialist's other focus is pediatric neurology), I was surrounded by children with all manner of problems. Some in wheelchairs, many with severe mental retardation who couldn't speak or walk. Looking at these children, all you can think (after realizing your heart is broken) is that it could have been you with a debilitating disorder. Or one of your siblings. I watch the parents of these children talk to and coo and cuddle and smile at and love them, and all I can think (after asking myself if I would have what it takes to be in their shoes) is that they should get an automatic spot in the hightest corner of heaven.

I got about an hour and a half of total facetime with the specialist and a fellow neurologist. They really knew their stuff and my case/records and had a plethora of additional questions for me about my symptoms and lifestyle in general. (My favorite exhange: "Do you smoke?" "No." "Do you drink?" "No." "Do you use drugs?" "No." Doctor looks up, almost like he doesn't believe me. "Marijuana?" Um, well since you put it that way. "No.") After a physical exam that I both aced AND got to keep my clothes on for (bonus!), the appt was over and the specialist shocked me by saying he's not convinced there's something wrong with the mitochondria themselves. Granted, the mitochondria are failing, hence all my symptoms, but he thinks it's more likely that something else is causing them to fail...that they are not in and of themselves dysfunctional. This is good news (if they can find the cause maybe there's a fix and I can feel better) and bad news (now I'm starting over on the lovely test-filled journey to a diagnosis).

They sent me to the lab where I had to fill no fewer than one billion vials of blood. It was shocking. I mean, I gave them my name, and all the labels for the different vials/tests began spewing out of the nearby printer. And they kept spewing out until my mouth hung open. "That looks like a lot of labels," I said to the nurse who pulled them from the printer. "Well, you've got a lot of blood," she said as she led me back to the dreaded chair-with-concave-metal-armrest-and-rubber-arm-tie combo. I covered my eyes and whimpered, which prompted her to start calling me 'sweetie' and ask how I was doing every minute. I'm hoping it isn't also what prompted her to ask me how old I was. I'm hoping she was just making conversation. Because I'll tell you right now. I don't care how old I get, when it comes to needles, I reserve the right to cover my eyes and whimper and not be mocked for it. Vials filled, I made the trek back through the elevators, buildings, and skyways (the Clinic is truly a city within a city) and only got lost once on the way back to the correct parking garage. I admit to being a little surprised that I had to pay for parking. Shouldn't there be some sort of validation system? You get your blood taken, you get your parking validated. Seems more than fair.

All in all, I am pleased with the appointment. The test results will trickle in over the next few weeks and the doctors will decide the next steps. And I will thank my lucky stars that we have such things as doctors and hospitals and people who can get oodles of vials of blood from a single stick.