Health crisis to a pandemic

It’s June 2020 in New York, which means our state is cautiously navigating the lowest case numbers of Covid-19 since March. While I’m fortunate to have stayed safe and healthy from the virus (thus far), this pandemic struck the U.S. at almost the exact time that I started to heal from a five-year health crisis. This overlap brought to light a theme that I’ve finally come to face in my life: loss.

It took about five years for me to identify my health issues as a “crisis.” More specifically, it took five years, leaving three jobs, a move back to my hometown, about six months bedridden, a year and a half working while half asleep, multiple flare-ups and health relapses, a lot of normalizing of pain, and some really fucking intense brain fog. It’s been the most painfully limiting time of my life.

Grieving is a murky process for people like me whose default zone means keeping our shit together when everything else falls apart. It’s even harder when loss comes crashing through life like ocean waves in a windstorm over and over and over again. Pretty soon those waves become blinding and numbing and confusing, and the only option for survival is holding your nose above water to breathe until the storm passes.

My losses initially flooded in so quickly that my body froze in the cold ocean water. After tragically losing five clients to murder, an uncle to cancer, and a friend to suicide during my first year post-grad school (2012-13), I went emotionally numb for a while. This had been interwoven with multiple cross-country moves, some crappy relationships, a rude awakening to many of society’s injustices (and, with that, an awareness of my own privilege), more death, and a body that finally shit the bed in 2016 – around the time as a Type 1 Diabetes diagnosis.

More on all that here.

I had tried swimming against the storm for a while. “I can do it,” I’d tell myself. I liked to believe my willpower was stronger than my body. That’s what I always told myself. That’s what society tells us, too. Keep pushing and don’t slow down; success is on the other side. I’ve realized that’s not actually encouragement for people like me who struggle to set personal limits. It’s danger.

Somewhere between 2012 and 2019, my losses became shielded by anger – anger toward broken systems, injustices, unfairness, ignorance, and a body that wouldn’t listen when I told it to swim harder. My diagnoses and declining health came initially came with little explanation. “Sometimes these things just happen and we don’t know why,” I’d hear over and over and over again. On top of this, our country had just elected a leader who entered office with immediate threats of removing the very healthcare coverage that kept unemployed, middle-class sick people like me alive.

After a while, my anger became part of my survival as I frantically treaded water and kept my nose to the sky. It gave me fuel and helped me swim when my body didn’t have the physical strength to tread on its own. It reminded me that my undiagnosed health issues took away my free-spirited lifestyle; my gut issues took my ability to enjoy food; the crappy American food industry took away my 25-year vegetarian values; my diabetes took my spontaneity; my hormone imbalances took my sharp memory; my shitty ex-boyfriends took my strong voice; my adult braces took my smile; my brain fog took my ability to fully engage in conversation; the healthcare system took all my money; insurance companies took my patience; the broken justice system took my hard-working clients; systemic racism killed my clients; the lack of good mental health services killed my friend; this pandemic took my April wedding and first post-health-crisis reunion with so many loved ones.

Of course, chronic anger isn’t productive or healthy – justified as it may be. Neither is blaming systems for my trauma – even when there’s truth in their destruction. But, it did leave me with a lot of healing to do.

I experienced another great loss last year – the loss of my blog. Somewhere in my health blackout, I got a new bank account and forgot to update my hosting site’s billing information. I’m still convinced that I received no notification of the cancellation, as I have yet to find a single form of communication about it. But, regardless, I lost it all – the entire compilation of my life and growth and experiences since 2010. I became angry about this for a while as well. But, I salvaged what posts I could, created this new blog platform, and I started again.

In October 2019, my dietician recommended a supplement regimen I hadn’t tried before. By February 2020, I had gone three full weeks without brain fog – the longest stretch I could remember since 2015. My energy started to improve and I was able to think clearly again. The storm didn’t slow to a stop, but I got my head back above water. My body became strong enough to let me swim.

When the pandemic hit, everything stopped. People from all over the world hunkered down and sang to one another through open windows of adjacent apartments. Travel bans and factory suspensions cleared smog over Beijing and showed residents the nighttime stars. The people of Venice saw fish in their rivers. People of Kathmandu saw clearer views of the Himalayas. And the stormy skies of my health crisis cleared enough for me to get my bearings and see the sun.

As it turns out, this pandemic led to the calming of my storm.

Anger is an energy. It can signal us to identify unmet needs that warrant attention. I know now that I needed permission to break down – to not hold it all together. I’ve learned throughout this healing journey that holding it together is a role and responsibility I’ve always taken on. While completely counterintuitive for me, I’ve been unlearning that this year and setting boundaries in areas that no longer serve me.

Ten years of loss, including five years of all-consuming illness, led me to an international pandemic. A competent treatment team now surrounds me as I tread lightly in the calming waters. It will be a long journey to shore. I’m still in the middle of the ocean, and autoimmunity itself looks much like unpredictable weather. But I’m heading in the right direction. I continue to strengthen my muscles on daily swims as my team rides alongside me. Despite my limitations, I continue to heal.