I’m Not a Giraffe, You’re a Giraffe 

Okay. That’s not true. I am definitely a giraffe.  

“Did you see all the horse pictures?” My husband asked me, while we were sitting at the doctor’s office for his appointment. We laughed a little and agreed they must not be looking for zebras. Maybe it was a subtle hint? 

You know the saying, “When you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras.” I wondered if the horse pictures throughout the office were like a not-so-secret message. The more I think about it, there might as well be a sign that said weirdos aren’t welcome.  

To be honest, they wouldn’t even need a sign or horse pictures for me to feel unwelcome, or like I didn’t belong. My PCP is in the same office, every time I’m there I can almost feel it. Every appointment I felt like I was asking for too much, there wasn’t enough time, or the “that’s not my job,” vibe.  

It’s not just there. Even today, when I was trying to get some work done, I got this message: 

“Too many requests. Please wait a bit before trying again.” 

Being a giraffe is exhausting!  

I had a virtual appointment with my PCP… (the one I switched to when my last one misdiagnosed my MS symptoms as vertigo and ear crystals.) At the same appointment she dug into my ears to get the ear wax out, leading to bleeding from my ears.  

Well… now this PCP is leaving and I am going to need a new one. Which, clearly, is not particularly new to me. It’s been less than a year since I changed to him!  

I decided before meeting with him that I needed to have my ducks in a row. Write everything down, prioritize my questions, and lower my expectations.  

My last interaction with him, at the horse-picture clinic, began with him reminding me we didn’t have much time, and asking what two things I wanted to discuss. He quickly redirected, reminding me most of my MS symptoms would be better treated by a neurologist. 

A few weeks before that, when I saw my neurologist, I was told, “this appointment is only 15 minutes. We can’t talk about all of this,” and told me to make an appointment with my PCP, because he would be a better resource to manage all my symptoms.  

Between that, and my neurologist telling me, “that’s not MS,” about 4 times in that 15 minute appointment, I wasn’t feeling understood or supported already. When I got the letter in the mail that my PCP was leaving the practice I wasn’t sure how to feel. 

I figured I might as well ask him what I should do. Ask him what the “rules” are for navigating chronic illness. You know, I hadn’t done this before, but it was his job…  

“Finding the PCP who can help manage a lot of things, um, is possible, but that it’s also difficult because usually everyone’s got their own realm of things they do.  

There’s not like a blueprint for it unfortunately. So I’m not sure I have an answer to your question. I just kind of rambled on, but yeah, it’s gonna be hard.” 

So, in an attempt to advocate for myself and try not to show my frustration, I asked, “Do you have any recommendations?” 

Basically, what he told me was my choices were to: change my insurance, lose access to some of the medications my family and I rely on currenlty. Or, take a risk with the same company, but a different doctor that he described as a “cowboy like me,” that is in another horse-picture clinic, just twice as far from my house.  

That did seem like a blueprint to me… a blueprint to my frustration! I didn’t like either of those options. So, I decided to use a google search: “doctors that can handle giraffes.”  

“If you are looking for medical care for a giraffe, it’s best to consult a veterinarian specializing in large animals or exotic animal medicine.” 

You know, I had never thought about looking into a vet to help me manage my healthcare. Maybe that’s not a terrible idea. Dr. Google can have some good insights sometimes. Although, most of the time, as a woman, Dr. Google usually says I have cancer or I’m pregnant… so maybe not the most reliable.  

Being a giraffe is invalidating.  

A post I am working on called Unseen Waves of Shifting Tides (Coming soon) includes a giraffe named Ash and his sister, Julie. Then, about 30 other animals that are navigating symptoms that I experience on a regular basis. The only difference is most of the animals only have one of the symptoms, and don’t have to also be a parent or work. 

I try so hard not to complain about this, especially to my doctor, or boss, or kids, or… well most people.  At the same time, it is a constant struggle to do things that I used to find simple.

Being a giraffe is expensive too.  

All of the tools, equipment, and services I have used to try to help me to feel an ounce of normality, is rather shocking. Between things to walk, stay cool, stay awake, go to sleep, manage pain, conserve energy and still get clean… it’s never ending. 

My husband has referenced Jim Gaffigan discussing having four children feeling like you’re drowning, and someone hands you a baby.  

Navigating living with MS feels like my house is on fire, so I call 911. When the fire department show up, it’s not with the tools I would expect. Instead, they have the truck deconstructed in a bunch of boxes with Chinese assembly instructions.  

They hand it all to me, wish me luck, and remind me “we only have 15 minutes.” 

Being a giraffe is dangerous. 

I see the world so much differently now that I have accepted my giraffe-ness. Sidewalks look different to me now. The cracks that I remember playing with as a kid, “don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mama’s back,” have a whole new, more literal, meaning now.  

Earlier this summer, before airport and cruise travel, my husband recommended that we have a minor exposure to traveling with a wheelchair. We took the light rail to Denver to meet some of his friends for breakfast.  

Things that I would have never noticed before were like glaring reminders that this journey did not have people like me in mind. The cracks in the sidewalk made me feel like I was literally going to fall onto the concrete.  

There was one spot in particular that we still reference. There was a water drain that went across the sidewalk, and the metal that was meant to be covering it had corroded. 

My husband couldn’t really see past me in the wheelchair, and we were in a hurry, so he didn’t see that there were giant holes in the walkway. In the past, I would have walked right over it, and probably not even noticed.  

Well… this time, the wheels of the chair got stuck, and the whole chair tipped forward with my husband’s forward momentum. My hands were very full of all of the things we needed for the journey, because my husband’s hands were full with pushing my chair.  

I’m still now sure how I didn’t fall on my face. Instead, I just stood up, and then right back down, before it had registered to us what had happened.  

Being a giraffe is also enlightening. 

I pay better attention now. To everything, really. I notice when others have medical equipment that help them with transportation and try to anticipate if they need help.  

I look at every door to see if it has an automatic door opener. Most don’t, and the ones that do are surprisingly inconvenient to use.  

I notice how parking lots are organized, and how I can best navigate them. It used to be looking for the easiest way to leave when I was done. Now, I try to plan the entire excursion before I choose a spot.  

A lot of us have heard, “everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” My hope is that we can try at least to care and listen to what others tell us about their needs. Sharing everything that is going on in our lives is vulnerable, and unrealistic to expect everyone to do.  

However, we can give other’s grace around us. Whether we see physical struggles they have, or not, we can assume their life has complexity we don’t understand. We all deserve some grace.  

Possibly, the person who needs your kindness the most, is actually yourself. You’re fighting a battle. It might not look pretty, but you’ve won every day so far.