Even
though I warned her, my new doctor was still startled by my iron levels. “The
low end of normal is nearly twice this number,” she insisted, educating me even
as I nodded along – I knew this already.
“Last
time it was a point lower,” I told her, but she (like most people) didn’t seem
to care how bad it used to be. She cared about getting me healthy now.
“People
get blood transfusions around these numbers.”
I
raised my eyebrows in surprise – not mock, but a bit exaggerated, trying
to give her the reaction I felt she was after. It wasn’t that I didn’t care,
but rather that my anemia had been a concern for so long, and nothing had
really ‘fixed’ it for long. I eat boatloads of dark leafy greens and iron-rich
meat, and I go through phases of supplement discipline too (they rarely last
long because iron pills are brutal on my stomach). So I just didn’t feel
empowered to change anything.
When
my doctor finally gave up on trying to impress upon me the seriousness of the
situation, she asked if I’d been feeling worse than usual – was I
especially tired or sluggish lately?
I
laughed. “Yeah, for a couple years. It’s one of the reasons I wanted you to run
these tests: I was pretty sure my iron would be low.”
She
frowned and asked why I hadn’t seen anyone sooner, and rather than make the
usual excuses about moving states and changing insurance providers and
struggling to find a doctor who was accepting new patients, I launched right
into the core truth:
“Well,
even though I know I have a tendency to be anemic, I still thought…I thought it
was my fault. Like, the reason I was tired was because I was lazy – it’s
cyclical, right? I just needed to exercise more, get my stamina up…I guess just
ignoring the fact that after nine months of yoga three times a week it seemed
to be getting harder instead of easier? You know…blaming myself…woman stuff.”
What
I didn’t say, mostly because I work very hard these days to avoid cracking that
particular* Pandora’s Box unless I have the time and emotional space to let out
all the crazies, was “fat people stuff.” While I suspect my self-neglect was
born at the intersection of growing up female and never quite reaching official
‘not fat’ status, the latter is the issue that feels more responsible for my
intense drive to gaslight myself.
For
months leading up to the blood tests, I’d been telling everyone who’d listen
that “I really need to do more actual
working out” and “my cardio is so bad.” I’d give examples: panting
uncontrollably when I walked up three flights of stairs to my office (even
though everyone else I worked with did it multiple times a day with relative
ease); my heart thudding in my ears when I climbed the hill from downtown to
our house; being so dizzy during yoga that my vision blurred. My face would
burn with shame as I described these effects, certain I’d let my fitness slide
too far, ‘indulging’ in vinyasa yoga instead of punishing my body with interval
training and walking five miles a day.
It
wasn’t until after the blood tests came back (and my doctor’s reaction to them),
when I was panting up a slight hill on my way to work, that I decided to Google
the symptoms of iron-deficient anemia. There on the screen in my quivering hand
was the medical truth: “fast heartbeat or shortness of breath, especially with
exercise…dizziness or lightheadedness…weakness…extreme fatigue…”
I
took a screenshot and texted my husband, who sent back a string of emojis
illustrating his exasperation. He did include one word: “Anne.” Just like that
– including the period. The most damning text.
I
can’t really blame him; I can be very stubborn about my body issues, and it
must be infuriating to watch the person you love choose to neglect her health
in favor of emotional harm. His sympathy ebbs in these moments, and no amount
of insistence that I’m so much better than I used to be** will force him to
embrace a perspective he hasn’t earned through experience.
There
is an argument to be made that how far I’ve come is no excuse for resting on my
laurels now; there’s always more work to be done. A couple of weeks ago I went
to London to visit friends, and as I was desperately trying to drag myself and
my bag up the stairs at Canada Water station – my second tube change after
24 hours and five legs of travel – I came very close to tears. My heart was
racing so fast I’d swear my throat was visibly pulsing, my vision was blurry,
and my lungs felt like they had the capacity of a thimble. But I kept lifting
one leaden leg after another, pressed on by the constant crowd, and (if I’m
honest) by my pride in the face of an arbitrary, possibly fabricated jury of
thin people.
By
the time I reached Forest Hill and met up with my friend Magda, I was
completely emptied out. I knew her walk-up flat was on the
British-second/American-third floor, and that more generally London is an
inhospitable city for anyone not in the peak of health, so I did the only thing
I could trust: I outsourced caring for me to someone who loves me. I told Magda
about my anemia, and the symptoms, and she listened and slowed her pace; she
also reminded me to take breaks on the stairs when we got to her building.
When
my friend Brittany arrived a few days later I told her too, and she was even
more of a watchdog, practically bullying me into putting my health before my
pride. At one point, as we trudged up an insanely steep hill to the Greenwich
Observatory, surrounded by throngs of people, Brittany insisted I stop moving
and breathe, forcing the hoards to flow around us – I’m certain if she
hadn’t forced me to stop I would have passed out. She also pushed me to share a
car to the airport with her rather than going through the three-train public
transport route to Heathrow all over again.
I’m
so grateful to my friends for helping me through that week, and to my husband
for picking up the slack and bullying me into resting at home, but one of the
many things I’ve learned from this experience is that others shouldn’t have to
police my self-care. I need to be a grown-up and learn to advocate for myself,
whether against others*** or (harder) against the mean, gaslighting voices in
my own head.
I keep
saying I don’t believe in resolutions, but I think that would make a pretty
great goal for 2020.
* Obviously
my word salad and follow-up explanation of ‘woman stuff’ counts as its own Pandora's Box
** I
really am, though, as you know – if you’re new here the archives will
enlighten you.
***
I’ve started declining to be weighed at the doctor’s office and while it was
very tough at first it gets easier every time.
PPS I can't believe it's been nearly two years since I've posted! OMFG. I guess most of my updates have been happening over on the author site – but this one felt particularly suited to this venue. The short version of a long story with lots of plot points: I got a full-time job that paid well but was a total nightmare; six months later we signed on a house, had our wedding, and I quit that job all in the same week; a couple weeks into 2019 I got a different job, which I'm still doing (more on that here).
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