Unidentified

Katherine Collamore

“I don’t know.”

My heart plummets into my abdomen as I hear these words come from the lips of yet another physician. As my hope fades into emptiness, I stare despondently at the white tile floor of the neurologist’s exam room.

Another inconclusive test, puzzled doctor, and week wasted. I walked around school with electrodes glued to my head for no reason. I didn’t shower for seven days, only to discover the limits of deodorant and dry shampoo. I slept completely still so that I did not alter the location of the EEG cables, to learn nothing. Today, just as yesterday, I am the girl who faints.

One, two, three . . . twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. I count the Q-tips in the cabinets as Dr. Ross offers recommendations for further testing and new specialists. I have lost interest in running more tests. I’m tired of hearing the same bewilderments from professionals who can allegedly help me. Instead, it seems they have no ability or desire to discover what might be causing my unusual symptoms. Every doctor we see gives up after running his or her routine, diagnostic test and failing to find an answer.

He has one hand on my electronic chart and one hand on the door knob—ready to move on to the next patient. Dr. Ross’s voice is indescribably dry and monotone, and his face is completely unengaged. “Have you ever considered seeing a psychiatrist? Some people faint when they are anxious.”

I try not to roll my eyes and shoot a snarky answer back. He shifts his glance back and forth between my mother and me. Just like all the physicians we have consulted, he decides that the most plausible answer is to assume it’s all in my head. However, we’ve heard this suggestion countless times before and pursued the theory to no avail.

In an effort to remain civil, my mom responds, “Yes, she sees Dr. Lee at Georgetown once a week.”

This satisfies him. Believing that he made a meaningful contribution to my case, he leaves saying, “Oh good! Keep doing that. You don’t need to come back here again. I’ll transfer all your files over to Psychiatry.”

After this visit, I never saw nor heard from Dr. Ross again. He probably believes I was magically cured or I fell off the face of the earth. Either way, me and my confusing array of symptoms weren’t his problem anymore.

That’s my identity: a problem. Someone who gets in the way, who disturbs the flow of everyday life—like a person standing still in the middle of a crowded New York City street during rush hour. Everyone shoves her out of the way, groaning at the inconvenience, mumbling insults under their breath.

When my mom and I get into the car to drive back to school, I stare out the window. The grey clouds looming over the small neurology practice gave me the feeling that medicine was failing me. As rain drops begin falling on the windshield of my mother’s blue Suburban, my eyes well up. My mom sees the tears and says, “This is good news. Be happy that nothing is seriously wrong with your brain.”

I know I should feel relieved and at peace. But I don’t. I feel a dark shadow closing in on a deep, hollow hole sitting in my gut. Of course, I’m glad I don’t have a brain tumor or epilepsy or narcolepsy, but I have something—and I want to know what that something is. My symptoms don’t cease simply because I don’t have a diagnosis. I don’t just suddenly stop fainting or miraculously have the energy to get through the day without three naps. I can’t stand up without getting dizzy now or stay up past 9:30 p.m. It’s all still there. It just doesn’t have a name. It’s unidentified. I’m unidentified. The most debilitating part is that you can’t fix something when you don’t know what’s wrong.

I sigh as we pull into the school drop-off lane. “I don’t want to go in.”

I don’t want to faint in the middle of class again and make everyone stop what they are doing to try to help me. I don’t want to get transported to the nurse’s office via wheelchair for the whole campus to see. I just want to go home and fall asleep. My mom answers, “I know.”

Nevertheless, we both get out of the car and walk toward the front door to sign in. I grab the rusted metal door handle and lean back with all my weight to open the front door. I used to be a world-class runner, now it takes all my might to open a door. The halls echo with high-pitched voices and laughter coming from the cafeteria.

The bell startles me as it blares through the overhead speakers, signaling the end of lunch. A stampede of my classmates shove me to the side as they run to class. My friend Emma and I start walking up the four flights of stairs to English after the noise and rush calms down. After just six stairs, my quads burn and my knees buckle beneath me. I try to push forward without drawing any extra attention to myself.

When we reach the end of the first set of stairs, my arms begin to throb as my lungs expand and push against my ribs to signal they have nothing left to give. I turn to Emma and say, “You go ahead. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

I don’t want to make her late again because I can’t walk up the stairs without a break. After she turns the corner of the next stairwell, I walk over to the water fountain for a drink. Once I take a few sips of water, my legs begin to stabilize and my vision becomes clear again. Feeling energized, I climb the remaining stairs to class. I walk in last—the whole class is already there. I sit down, and the bell rings. Ms. Avery pulls out her copy of Anna Karenina and begins a discussion about character development and theme.

One of my classmates comments on Anna’s feelings of isolation and her search for true happiness. I try to raise my hand to contribute my thoughts, but this sudden, simple movement sends my body into fight or flight mode. I feel tingling in my face and coldness in my ankles while my calves begin turning a dark shade of purple. My breathing quickens, and I can feel my heartbeat in the tips of my fingers, my toes, and my temples. I turn my head to signal to Emma that something is wrong, but as I do, everything around me becomes blurred and I feel like I’m staring at the world without my glasses on -------

My eyes shake as they open. There is still a dark vignette filling the corners of my vision.

“I am so sorry.”

The apology forms from behind the dryness of my tongue, immediately, as I surface from what feels like a gentle sleep. My eyes flutter in response to the bright light. I cannot remember the exact moment before my body slid to the ground, but I know that I have fainted . . . again. I cannot move. I am completely helpless. The back of my head rests on the floor as I become aware of my surroundings. Just as I start to feel as if I have regained partial consciousness, my eyes roll back and my face droops -------

I open my eyes and see the school nurse leaning over me. All my classmates and Ms. Avery look on. I notice the blood pressure cuff around my arm and read my heart rate on the screen: 106 beats per minute. I’m tachycardic, as usual. The machine screams and squeezes my arm to the point where my fingers begin swelling. Abruptly, it stops. The blood pressure reader beeps red and green with warning messages. Inconclusive reading. Unidentified.

Ms. Avery comes forward and asks the nurse, “What do we do?” I hear the nurse respond, “I don’t know,” right before my vision flutters, my eyes roll back again, and -------

-Katherine Collamore is a sophomore from Chevy Chase, MD, pursuing a major in Psychology and a minor in Health and Society.-