I know what you mean, Elaine.
I didn’t want to be diagnosed either - although there was money in it, as I had critical illness insurance, so it did turn out to be a slight silver lining.
I grew up believing anything that went away by itself couldn’t be anything very serious, because that’s what my parents had taught me: anything serious doesn’t clear up by itself - and by and large, they’re right! Of course, it wasn’t their fault they didn’t know about weird relapsing remitting diseases like MS - who does, until they get one of them?
So when I had my earliest “episodes” I was very reluctant to do anything about it, as I seemed to make a good recovery, so I reasoned: “How serious can it be?”
When I had the episode (relapse) that led to my diagnosis, the neuro wanted me to have further investigations (MRI, blood tests), but I was all for going home and leaving it, and came very close to doing just that!
In fact, I asked: “Well what happens if I don’t do that, and just go home?”
He said: “Well, it might never happen again. It might happen again and be the same, or happen again and be worse. If it happens again and is worse, we would really like to know what it is, so we know how to treat it, and don’t have to start from scratch with the investigations…”
So I very reluctantly realised he was right, and I had to go through with the investigations, despite my instinct to go home and try to pretend it never happened!
But it was a close thing - he’d even written on the note to my GP something like: “Note: this patient may elect not to pursue diagnosis”.
I’m still not always sure if I did the right thing. Obviously, the insurance money was a boon, especially as I’ve since been made redundant. But it made no difference in terms of treatment, as I declined DMDs anyway.
In one sense it was a relief to be diagnosed, as it explained a lot of small mysteries over the years. But the other side of the coin was I started noticing every symptom, and registering it as sinister, whereas previously I’d been easily able to ignore it, and kid myself it was just my age, or hormones, or something.
Suddenly, every twinge was a sign I was ill, and not just over 40!
But I suppose, however slow on the uptake I was - or reluctant to confront the obvious - there would have come a time when I had to admit I was ill. It wasn’t really a question of “If”, just “When”. I suppose I might have managed another few years telling myself it was nothing. But not many, really.