There’s a way where being chronically ill removes humanness from you, peels it away like onion layers.
I saw a screenshot of a tweet on Reddit earlier today that went something like, “you go see a doctor, tell them you’re sick, and they go, ‘ughhhhhhhhh’,” and I think that’s not funny because it’s true.
On days with planned doctor’s appointments, I’ll plan my wardrobe for having to undress in front of strangers for exams or treatments or other kinds of probing and prodding, not out of shame, but out of making myself as comfortable and warm as i can in rooms that are usually too bright, too cold, and exams that take too long for the typically unremarkable knowledge gain: Long woolen dresses to the gynecologist and angeologist; a top with thin straps to massage therapy and orthopedist;
A few days ago, I had to throw up 8, maybe 10 times, in the middle of the day, in the middle of a crowded park.
My partner rented a car to drive me home. I get car sick on even the most normal of days. This time, I entered the car already nauseous. Once we’d loaded all our bags into the trunk, I turned off the cold fan blasting AC air into my face, and they started driving, I told them, “if I get sick again, just keep driving, I’ll throw up onto my dress, I don’t care, I just want to be home as fast as possible” and I meant it. The drive home took 2 instances of going in circles and 45 minutes instead of the usual 20 because several major roads were closed for protests and holiday festivities. I didn’t vomit, and it only took me 15 minutes to make it up the five flights of stairs.
An hour later, my body demanded a replenishment of resources with the same vigor it had gotten rid of them earlier in the day, and I ate two bowls of pasta.