My blog has started getting a bit more traffic lately—not enough for a celebration, but enough to make me reflect.

I actually came here to take down a few posts. Their readability is low, they clutter the blog, and honestly, they don’t offer much value to anyone. I think it’s better to clear them out.

One post in particular caught my attention because of its careless language and the thoughtless picture it painted.

I realized that, even if unintended, it came across as hurtful and demeaning to someone I deeply respect, admire, and cannot imagine my life without.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I have no excuse.

The paragraph is from my “IVIG Infusion May, 2025” and says:

Then came the crucial moment: my routine reunion with the neurologist. As usual, she gave me the full nerves check-up performance with her rubber hammer, asked a few vague questions about my overall health (“blah blah blah, are you still alive?”), and sent me off, unsuspecting, to the nurses for the classic blood/venflon double feature.

I’ve been going through the classic neurologist check-up routine since 2011—first during my lengthy and unnerving diagnosis, and later to monitor my treatment.

At this point, I can practically perform the exam myself.(I really CANNOT – just joking)

This check-up is always the first thing that happens when I walk into the ward, and by now it feels completely routine—just business as usual for me

The tone of this paragraph was meant to reflects how used I’ve become to all of this—how it’s become my new normal while living with CIDP.

It also intentionally carries the undertone of resentment toward the lifestyle it’s forced me to adapt, along with the fatigue, anxiety, and the occasional depressive spells that come with it.

What this description ABSOLUTELY DOES NOT REFLECT is my Doctor’s exceptional professionalism—her medical expertise, her experience with patients, her skill, innovative spirit, pleasant demeanor, kindness, compassion, warmth, and the genuine care she brings to every visit. Not only to mine.

I’m here to set the record straight, because I feel it’s only right to give her the respect and justice she truly deserves.

Disclaimer:
If any part of this post gives the impression of disrespect or dissatisfaction, I deeply regret it—that was never my intention. The tone reflects my own emotions and struggles living with CIDP, not the quality of care I receive. In reality, I deeply respect, admire, and truly care for my doctor. Her professionalism, knowledge, and kindness have been an essential part of my journey, and I am profoundly grateful for her.

Celebrating Compassion and Expertise: My Neurologist in Przemyśl

My doctor neurologist, never rushes through her check-ups; she is always incredibly thorough.

She never asks vague or silly or inappropriate questions—she always knows exactly what to ask and how to ask it.

There are moments during an exam when she needs to physically touch her patients, whether with a reflex hammer or by gently palpating cheeks, arms, legs, hands, or toes—and she is always gentle, never intrusive.

She is easy to keep in touch with outside the hospital. She always answers my emails or texts asap.

From the very moment I met her, she has been nothing but supportive, kind, patient, and encouraging—always reassuring me and making me feel safe and well cared for.

I am not just saying this to flatter.

It’s not just my experience; I now know many others who can confirm the same.

Now that I am switching from IVIg to SCIg, she has become a crucial part of this entire experience—not just for me, but for many patients under her care.

She fought for this change, initiated the procedure to be available in our area/our hospital, and even traveled to Warsaw to receive the necessary training and education.

When she introduced the idea to me, I was excited as hell—but also worried about the learning curve that comes with it.

Among the challenges of self-administration, there is one in particular that SCIg requires: the moment when you have to poke your own belly to receive the hyaluronidase and then the immunoglobulins.

We spoke about it during my check-up, and I must have appeared a bit distraught at the idea. My doctor immediately noticed and reacted. She pulled out a syringe filled with saline, rolled up her scrubs, grabbed a fold of her skin, and injected it all in.

I was truly stunned by her sacrifice and generosity—she didn’t have to do it—and her calm professionalism. She did it effortlessly, with no fuss, no drama, and not a single grimace on her face—all that for my sake.

I was moved.

That definitely deserved a deep bow.

It honestly feels like someone lifted a giant stone off my chest after getting that clarification. I also went ahead and removed every post that involved other people’s lives—because, let’s face it, they had no idea they were becoming side characters in my stories, and absolutely no one asked for that role.

Apparently, I’m no longer “writing for the drawer,” and people actually pay attention now… which means I should probably start behaving like a responsible blogger instead of a rogue “Dear Diary” enthusiast who accidentally wandered onto the internet and has been behaving like an elephant in a china shop on a caffeine high.

That is a lesson I am taking away from this experience.

In my posts, I rarely—almost never—comment on the medical staff at Father Pio. Their neurology ward carries one of the heaviest responsibilities imaginable: life-saving decisions made in split seconds are routine, and they face immense stress every day.

Yet, I can honestly say that everyone has been wonderful to me.

Every single person, starting with my Dr, has made my stays in the hospital smooth and as easy as possible.

I was often deeply overwhelmed by the kindness and care they showed me, and the thought that I might hurt anyone with an inappropriate or careless comment would both diminish the gratitude I feel and betray the respect I have for them.