My affective response is not appropriate to the questionnaire. I drop tears on it. My face is hot and red above it. My body is full of the wrong kind of information. Not data. Not paper print out. The typed questions before me should not elicit this much sadness.
For The New Inquiry, Katie Lew writes about pursuing a diagnosis for her neurological symptoms, and how her once-mappable narrative spun outward into the ongoing absurdist dream of extracting care from insurance carriers whose main function is to get you back into the workforce.
