For those of you who’ve just been diagnosed with fibromyalgia (fibro for short), the world might look a little different to you right now. And you may well feel that a stranger has suddenly taken over your body, thanks to the sometimes off-the-wall reactions some of us have to finally hearing the diagnosis.
I’ve identified in my own research and in my conversations with other fibro patients roughly four “types” or “characters” that emerge unbidden from us when we finally get that “F” word from our doctor. Bear in mind this is in no way a scientific study, but a totally random creation of my own imaginative mind based purely on anecdotal evidence alone. You know - very trustworthy stuff.
You can never really tell which one of these characters will emerge when you get the “good news” from Dr. No, by the way. I’ve seen stoic, stodgy bankers burst out laughing, and the most airy artistic types turn into a Commander that would make Patton proud.
The Crier
The Crier does just that - she cries. She might cry a little or a lot; the tears may be stifled initially but let loose outside the doctor’s office on the way home, or maybe they’ll flow that night. Whatever the circumstance and whenever they may come, the tears will come, when the first reaction is an overwhelming sense of sadness. This type has a perspective of loss - she sees immediately what she’s lost or is losing or will lose: time with children, grandchildren; favorite physical activities; romantic relationships with people who aren’t capable of dealing with her illness; and worst of all, her dreams for her life that now (she feels) are completely trashed - gone up in little puffs of ethereal smoke. Marked by a growing agitation in her physical body that feels much like anxiety prior to the announcement of the diagnosis, The Crier will erupt and usually run its course in a day or two.
However, you should be wary if The Crier hangs out for more than that. Here’s the thing about The Crier: even while you’re letting The Crier have center stage, doing her dramatic, weepy thing, you know deep down that while she’s entitled to mourn the passing of a past perception of what your life was all about, any sense of doom is just nuts. You haven’t lost anything yet except your ignorance - now, you know what’s going on with you. You have gained some knowledge.
And that’s the real trick to dealing with her. You need to start gently encouraging the Crier inside to look at what remains, and even what you’ve gained (certainty, a plan…).
The Laugher
Believe it or not, some folks feel a deep sense of - if not glee, then deep-seated relief. These are The Laughers. They’re relieved to know that, at long last, there’s a name for the hell they’ve been going through. And they see a bit of humor in the whole thing, truth be told. I mean - an invisible illness, everyone thinks you look well, but you feel like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck? That’s honestly kind of funny if you think about it! Plus, there’s the overwhelming sense of relief that it isn’t something more serious - something fatal, perhaps? Or degenerative?
The Laugher should feel free to see the humor in her situation all she likes but might want to keep in the back of her mind a thought that if there does come a day or time that it doesn’t seem so funny after all, that it’s completely permissible to feel like not laughing - it’s even OK to get angry, or sad.
The Homer
No, not the Simpsons character. This “Homer” takes to the nest - her home - and doesn’t come out for a very long time. Home, with its sense of familiarity and safety, feels very good to the Homer who suddenly feels her entire world has come unglued and gravity is no longer working for her. To cope through the next few days, the Homer should take it very easy on herself - allow herself the luxury of nesting for a bit. But through it all, she should also attempt to maintain a sense of “what remains.” At some point, she’ll have to look at changes to be made, both psychologically and physically, but right now in the immediate aftermath, merely reminding herself that some things haven’t changed is good medicine.
This kind of response is pretty much just what the Homer needs, and she shouldn’t allow herself to feel pressured out in the world sooner than she’s ready. However, keep an eye on yourself - if a short nesting period turns into a habitual agoraphobia, you’ll want to get some help, pronto.
The Commander
Far and away the most impressive, outwardly, is the Commander. She takes it all in with the air of a general receiving briefings from advance scouts, and within short order has accumulated even further information, consolidated and processed it, refined it into a well-honed military strategy. Commander’s got plans to lay siege to fibro and eradicate its presence altogether. She reads all the latest research study descriptions, keeps up on all the latest literature, and she’s got a plan for treatment in place for the next six months or beyond.
That’s all well and good, Commander, but bear in mind - this is still an incurable disease. There will come a point that you can’t control, and that’s OK; be ready for it and know that you’ll need a different approach when that time comes.
Who’s Who?
You can’t really predict which one of these four types (or any of their supporting players) might make an appearance - that’s the fun of it, you could say. But I do believe this: whatever does come up for you unbidden - whichever of these characters makes her debut in your life post-diagnosis - she has something to say, and you’d do well to let her have her time on the stage. (Just don’t forget that you’re the director.)
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