By Crystal Lindell

Trying to get a diagnosis for chronic health problems is like being born with brown hair and dying it blonde your whole life because it feels mandatory. 

Then, after one dye job too many, you start to lose your hair in chunks, so you decide it’s time to get some help. But by then, everyone is invested in you being a blonde. 

You go to the doctor and they look at your dyed blonde hair, which you’ve been maintaining because of societal expectations. And they say, “Umm, you don’t look brunette?” 

Then, despite your very visible brown roots, the doctor accuses you of just wanting the label of “brunette” as a fad. You wonder if he’s right, while your hair falls out from bleach damage.

It took 5 years for me to get an official diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS) after I started having serious health problems. The kind of health problems that cause you to go from an independent overachiever with 2 jobs and an active social life down to one job, moving in with your mom and spending so much time in her basement that your vitamin D drops to dangerously low levels.

It took me 5 years even though a couple years before I was diagnosed with EDS a doctor added  “benign hypermobility” to my chart. A notation that should have almost immediately led to the Ehlers-Danlos syndrome diagnosis, seeing as how I was clearly having issues that were not benign! 

It honestly makes me want to scream obscenities just remembering it. How casual they were about my life. How dismissive it all feels in retrospect. 

Lurk around any chronic illness patient group online, and you’ll see a similar refrain: Doctors don’t like to diagnose complex chronic health conditions. In fact, patients often have to figure out what they have themselves, and then find a way to present it to the doctor without offending them. I suspect this is why it takes an average of six years to get a diagnosis for a rare disorder. 

Or, if you want to torture yourself, spend time on the Reddit boards for verified medical professionals. There you’ll see the doctors confirming your worst fears: They do think you’re hysterical. They do think you just want attention. They do think the diagnosis that fits your condition is just a fad.

I want to make those doctors understand why none of that is true. I desperately search for the words to make them understand why a diagnosis matters so much when you’re suffering. Even if there’s no cure. Even if it doesn’t change the course of treatment. Even if you’ve already diagnosed yourself.

I grasp at metaphors that fall through the overextended joints in my fingers, desperately trying to make them understand the importance of a diagnosis.

I want to make my case so bad. To use logic and poetry to explain why naming things does actually matter. More than that, I want to make the case for the other patients who are suffering without even being granted the words to explain why.

My pleas fall to the ground though, because doctors don’t listen. Their minds are already made up. It’s all in our heads. And even if it’s not, they say, there’s no point in labeling it. 

They accuse you of just wanting a label to feel special, as though they — as doctors and nurses with their very own set of special letters after their names — aren’t obsessed with labels that make them feel special. 

Worse though, I suspect that somewhere deep down, the doctors know what I know: If a diagnosis did not matter, they wouldn’t be so stressed about not handing them out.

Naming things empower you. It gives you a sense of control over something that’s usually very uncontrollable. But more than that, it gives you the ability to explain it to others. To connect to another human being about your experience.

So yes, a diagnosis does matter. It matters immensely. I just wish I had a single word to explain exactly why.