17 results for “"Patients as Partners:"”

Patients as Partners: Christel on “finding your tribe”

Posted August 4th, 2016 by

Today, we’re sharing the final piece of the Patients as Partners series from Christel, who’s living with type 1 diabetes. Christel has relied on several of the Partnership Principles including respect, communication, and shared responsibility throughout her journey. Below, see what she says about connecting with others who know what she’s going through and discovering the “life-changing benefits of partnering with peers.”

Whether you are newly diagnosed or a veteran in your health condition, there are always opportunities to learn, share, and create a group of trusted peers who become your tribe. Despite a diagnosis of type 1 diabetes over 30 years ago, it wasn’t until I recently “found” my tribe that I truly understood the life-changing positive benefits of partnering with peers — those who travel along a similar healthcare journey. How did I find my tribe? I created it, using many of the Partnership Principles.

Know Your Needs

In a quest to better understand diabetes and how to manage it, I attended conferences and meetings where experts would stand up and discuss research and treatment plans. These sessions were helpful, but what shocked me was where I truly learned to understand daily life with my disease: my peers, during rapid-fire discussions in hallways or sitting around a lunch table. We began to talk beyond the medical management and focused on how to “live” with diabetes.

I realized that there was something missing that was needed in our community: a patient-led psychosocial idea exchange where we could share our fears, frustrations, and tips in a safe, protective environment where no one felt judged or criticized. The Diabetes UnConference was born.

Share Responsibility

I couldn’t do this alone. I asked for help from a group of people impacted by diabetes who I trusted: my peers. Those whose wisdom I sought out and those I admired for their ability to be honest and supportive became the facilitators for sessions discussing intimacy issues and burnout. They helped others share their secrets by creating a sacred space where social media was not allowed to penetrate. Our peers are our experts and by acting as partners, we have the opportunity to switch roles during discussion.

Christel and peers at the Diabetes UnConference

 

Respect Each Partner

Part of our commitment to each other during the conference is to check in frequently with these questions: “Do you feel welcomed? Do you feel valued? Do you feel respected?” Many of the conversations that occur during sessions are deeply personal and even if we have different attitudes or treatment plans, the overarching goal is to learn from each other. We have had attendees diagnosed in the past six months sitting next to peers diagnosed over 50 years ago — and each said they had learned something new and were able to find a connection, because they vowed to respect their individual experiences.

Listen and Communicate

I value the communication between my peers during The Diabetes UnConference, because in listening to others and being able to openly share my experiences, I have learned new ways to manage daily life with diabetes. While I may not utilize a particular treatment, learning about it from my peers is crucial, because I never know who I might meet in the future who is interested in that particular issue. Connecting and communicating with others widens my partnership with my peers through listening. Many of our attendees say that because of what they learned at The Diabetes UnConference, they have made positive changes to their daily management and have achieved measurable positive outcomes. I’m one of those peers.

Evolve and Accept Growth

In addition, by listening to the feedback my peers gave me from the first conference, we have evolved. One attendee said that they wished those who love us — spouses, significant others, parents, children — were able to have the same type of psychosocial support and safe, non-judgmental environment. Many other peers agreed, and the next year, we created that space for a new group of peers: PLUs (People who Love Us). Partnering with my peers allowed us to grow and welcome more partnerships that didn’t exist before.

Reflect, Evaluate, and Reprioritize

As The Diabetes UnConference matures, I have found my tribe and helped to grow partnerships that have turned peers into trusted confidants and friends. Many attendees check in with each other on a regular basis, despite living across the country. My peers and I are looking to expand ways to have those trusted face-to-face conversations in a safe environment to others who can’t attend a conference due to location or financial constraints. We are looking for what’s missing and finding ways to fill that gap.

My experience with founding The Diabetes UnConference has me wondering how many other health conditions could benefit from this type of psychosocial idea exchange and how others could partner with their peers. Using these Partnership Principles offered up by the PatientsLikeMe Team of Advisors is a great place to begin.

 

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Patients as Partners: Doug on learning about himself through others

Posted July 27th, 2016 by

Next up in our Partnership Principles series is Team of Advisors member Doug (ducksixty). A writer and former actor, Doug tapped into his creative side and has shared a personal essay about Steve, a neighbor with fibromyalgia who unknowingly helped him realize something about his own experience with depression. Check out his story below and find out how Steve inspired him to look inward and re-evaluate what’s important: “I’m electing to dethrone the disease and reassert a part of my former self.”

Steve can barely move. Wants to, but he can’t.

A burly, silver-bearded, former long-haul trucker, he lives in the senior citizen one-bedrooms next door. Had to throw in the towel several years ago when inexplicable, undiagnosed joint pain made it impossible for him to drive safely. Retired early, Steve lives on a carefully-measured monthly Social Security payout. He knows enough to call what he’s got “fibromyalgia,” and he’s tried to get help for it in our rural, medically-underserved corner of California desert, but he simply doesn’t have the means. Even after Obamacare.

Every day, he shuffles out his front door, gingerly lowers himself into the folding chair outside his apartment entrance, and chats with passersby. All day. Won’t do ibuprofen anymore because of his kidneys; afraid of opioids, and can’t afford them, anyway. Steve’s only relief is a single beer, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale when he can afford it, each afternoon.

So I’m surprised when I overtake him on my walk to work last Tuesday morning, three blocks from home. Halting gait, for sure, but no cane, moving deliberately down Warren Street.

“What’s up? You okay?” I ask, hoping to learn what prompted his sojourn.

“Fibro’s been lettin’ up lately, and I’ve got a little extra cash,” he says. “Headin’ for the bike shop.”

He reads the question on my brow, and, before I can vocalize, explains, “I’m buying a used bike.” My question persists; I try to get my head around the thought of crippled-up Steve flying up a trail, or even simply coasting down the street.

“Think I might be able to ride again; figured it’d be more fun sittin’ my butt down on a moving bike saddle than sittin’ still dying on a fold-up chair.”

He smiles, wipes his brow, looks in the sun’s direction, squinting at the mountains. We move on slowly, chatting, down Warren toward town. I can tell he’s in pain, but I can tell he’s determined. And I can tell he’s excited.

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Winston Churchill’s “black dog” has pursued me since 1998, when I was thrust into my first major depressive episode by worries surrounding Y2K. I lost twenty pounds, I cried the night through in lieu of sleep, I had to daily reassure my kids that they weren’t the source of Daddy’s sadness. Couldn’t work, and confined myself to the bedroom. I held out on professional help for six months (macho bullpucky), on medical treatment and pharmacotherapy for eight. I lost a full year of my life that first time to ruminative inactivity. A year of my marriage, a year of my kids’ childhoods.

As the meds took hold and therapy helped me reclaim my confidence, I became a student of major depression. Learned about neurotransmitters, primal brain centers, PET scans, and diet’s effect on mood. Joined online support communities and found a site for logging my symptoms and other details. I sought out discussion of historic and current medication protocols and information on emerging electric/electromagnetic therapies. I even found academic papers that argued depression could be an evolutionary adaptation. In short, like scores of other PatientsLikeMe members, I became an expert on my malady.

But my Tuesday morning stroll with Steve raised big questions. Did I really need to be as expert as I had become? (Did I need even to be on the Team of Advisors?) My family had been strained enough dealing with the depression itself. Did the addition of a couple of hours, isolated, reading all of the latest on mental illness every morning provide more benefit than if I’d just spent that time with my wife or kids instead?

Steve, when presented with an opportunity, elected to act contrary to his disease. To ignore it. When his joints allowed, and while he still had reasonable strength and balance, he got back on the proverbial horse…or mountain bike. He didn’t spend the regained time, comfort, and strength his “remission” afforded learning more about his disease; he sought to regain a part of his former life, a part that provided him great pleasure. In my efforts to master my disease and feel like I had some control in a miserable situation, had I unknowingly shot myself in the foot?

Depression had to some degree taken me away from life; had studying the condition ad nauseam simply moved me even further from it?

I’ve been “coming back” now for some six years, after being gravely injured by a drunk driver, losing my marriage (and ready access to my three children), and enduring a years-long emotional decline that saw me into psychiatric hospitalization and a couple months’ worth of electroconvulsive and outpatient therapy. The post-ECT psych-drug regimen they’ve got me on now does a number on my emotional range (what range?) and plagues me with crappy side effects, and I’ve continued research to see how to abet my situation.

But I’ve increasingly become more Steve-like, too. Ventured back into relationships and found a wonderful partner. Travelled independently (first time in eight years) to NYC to see my daughter and her husband last fall — I even attended my first theatre in a decade (I had formerly been a professional actor). I’m a depressive, yeah, but I’ve decided — and Steve reinforced that decision — not to let that label serve as my singular definition. I’m still trying to start a bipolar/depression support group, still counseling and messing with my pharm cocktail, and still working with PatientsLikeMe as an advisor. But I’m trying not to succumb or obsess.

I believe other PatientsLikeMe folks might also benefit from auditing their day-to-day and learning where they’ve allowed their (totally understandable) prepossession with their condition to eclipse possibilities for a richer life. After Steve rearranged my thinking the other morning, I went home and read a one-man play I’d heard about from friends. I decided to perform it next fall. I’m working on rights, finding crew, putting together an agreement for using a local space, even thinking about the possibility of performing it in schools or on tour.

The fact that I’m depressed will shape the way my experience unfolds, but obsessing over it won’t preclude that experience altogether. I’m electing to dethrone the disease and reassert a part of my former self.

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Steve mounts his new used bike outside on the street. He’s fragile, even tottering, as he balances. He’s really slow, and I worry that he’s not wearing a helmet. But he moves determinedly up and down our block. He’s obviously in considerable pain, and his forehead is shiny with sweat. And the smile on his face tells me he’s undeniably happy, despite the challenges. So am I. I dive back into scoring my script.

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