A few physicians had been deeply kind and tried their hardest to discover the culprit that was demolishing my body and upending my life. But too many others — as is often the case in stories like mine and, as we’re seeing right now, for people with long covid — insisted I was lying, exaggerating, “just depressed” (as if depression itself isn’t a potentially fatal illness) or, of course, seeking attention, perhaps the most ridiculous accusation leveled when a diagnosis remains elusive. (“Does it seem like I need to fake an illness to get attention?” I’d replied to a cardiologist who thought undergoing an EKG would somehow garner me worldwide recognition.)
