114 days ago, I stared at that button for twenty minutes.
'Whatever doesn't work, I'm the only one who falls for it again. I can't survive another disappointment.'
My numbers were controlled. My cardiologist was satisfied. My repeat prescription had been waiting at the pharmacy every month for five years.
But I also thought: I can't keep feeling like this.
So I clicked. Hands shaking. Distinctly certain I was making a mistake.
Day five, I checked my morning reading. Down six points. I checked it again. Same. I sat there and did not know what to do with a number that had moved without me expecting it.
Week three. Through an entire day without the afternoon fog. Made dinner, had a conversation I remembered the next morning, went to bed without measuring how much worse I felt than the day I was diagnosed.
Fourteen weeks. Full panel at my six-month appointment. Inflammatory markers down for the first time in three years.
Blood pressure the lowest recorded since before my diagnosis. My cardiologist looked at the panel. Then at me. Then at the panel. 'Whatever you changed — I want to discuss reviewing your dose at the next visit.'
It's the small things that stay with me. Not starting every morning wondering how dizzy I'll be today. Not managing side effects of a treatment while the condition underneath continues. Not feeling like a number being maintained rather than a person being helped.
I don't know where you are right now. Maybe the same tunnel I was in. Maybe you're thinking 'she got lucky, but it won't work for me.'
I thought that too.
114 days ago I clicked that button. Today I'm living a life I forgot I could have.
Whatever you decide, I'm waiting for you.
— Linda Hartwell, 58, Austin, Texas