Tag Archives: chronic illness

A preposterous picture of health

Oscillating flower petals. Dancing dots. A kaleidoscopic galaxy bursting in my field of vision. This was all new, and coincided with my hospitalization for a kidney biopsy.

There were concerns I might be having lupus-related mini-stroke so an MRI was ordered to look for a brain bleed. While waiting, the doctors let me out of the hospital for the weekend.

As an antidote to illness, we went house hunting.

While I needed fistfuls of drugs to beat back the inflammation gnawing on my kidneys I also needed somewhere better to live. I needed to not live above a drug dealer and his prostitute. I needed not to be disturbed by their frenetic negotiations over sex, money, drugs. I needed a safe cocoon where I could sleep through the night.

My better health seemed to depend on it.

When you have an illness that makes no sense, it becomes a fool’s pastime to look for connections and causes behind the descent to disease. At one time or another, I’ve sworn off gluten, corn, eggs, dairy, sunlight, stress, soy, red meat, all meat — and had my mercury fillings removed, to name a few fanciful attempts to feel better.

Back then, in hospital, I was extremely irritated to learn from a kidney biopsy that I had the most serious type of lupus nephritis; class IV, diffuse and proliferative. What was the cause? Rampant inflammation couldn’t have done that kind of damage overnight and must have been simmering for a while, right? Continue reading

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Remembering a massacre: a tough pill to swallow (Part 18)

The moment my editor told me to get to the airport, my stomach fell as though I was on the down slope of a roller coaster. I stood in the middle of the newsroom, as a few deskers and reporters stared at me expectantly, wondering if I could possibly decline. I think reporters often dread the unknown of a story and the difficulties that lie ahead in nailing it down, but I feared I just wasn’t up to the task.

I’d been feeling tired, lupus tired, for days and I was walking like an elderly woman whose joints lacked lubricant.

But in Montreal, where the killing began around 5 p.m.,  27 people were shot or stabbed. All the dead were young women; fourteen of them.

How could I not go?

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Heart burn (Part 15)

While dying of prostate cancer, New York Times book critic Anatole Broyard wrote about “the therapeutic value of style.”

In Intoxicated By My Illness, he observed: “It seems to me that every seriously ill person needs to develop a style for his illness. I think that only by insisting on your style can you keep from falling out of love with yourself as the illness attempts to diminish or disfigure you.”

I’ve long envied literary men who write boldly about their various afflictions, fatal and otherwise, knowing that their ability to do their job is never in doubt and they relish the protection that their reputations afford them.

This is not the case for shift workers, dishwashers, desk jockeys that fill boxes with numbers for a modest salary, or almost anyone else. And not for girl reporters trying to figure out how to work sick.

I am currently reading Working Bodies: Chronic Illness in the Canadian Workplace (McGill-Queens University Press, 2014). It is dedicated to “all Canadians living with chronic illness who want to have meaningful employment and engagement in the workplace.”

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How not to tell your new colleagues you’ve got a chronic illness (Part 14)

When the pain came, I carried it on my shoulders as I waded through the polluted, dirty water of Lake Ontario. When I made it to my desk in the Toronto Star newsroom, I  wrote the final words on Vicki Keith conquest.

“Five down. None to go.”

I followed her in a boat across Erie, Huron and Superior, Ontario (twice), and almost Michigan, and that’s the best lede I could come up with. But at least it was brief.

My knuckles were swollen, my fingers bunched into fists. They looked like boxer’s hands. I punched gingerly at the keys, wincing. It was like repeatedly hitting a block of cement.

I did not go to emergency, as I had when I was in third-year university. I calmly called my rheumatologist at Mount Sinai and asked for an appointment. His office manager did not see the same urgency that I did, and so she booked me the next available appointment, several months from then. Continue reading

Playing with boys (Part 13)

When I joined the Star’s downtown general assignment pool, all the reporters’ desks had been shoved into rows as they renovated the newsroom.

It reminded me of a Grade 8 class at an all-boys school.

Loud-talking guys in wrinkled dress shirts, loosened ties, sitting jowl-to-cheek, ego-to-ego, as they pounded out their stories on 1970s computers, in late stages of decay.

I was seated, temporarily, beside a bulldog of two-way man (meaning he both wrote and took photographs), who immediately showed me the collection of girlie photos he’d amassed on the job. He’d somehow convinced numerous women to pose for photos with their shirts off, and kept a file in his desk, mixed in with pictures of his children (clothed).

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A serving of self-loathing, with a dollop of death wish—the rise of autoimmunity? (Part 10)

Before I knew I was the proud owner of an immune system that couldn’t tell self from invader, doctors pushed sedatives on me.

They hypothesized that my buffet of bodily dysfunctions — stabbing pain around my lungs, clawed hands, ruddy and hot joints — were provoked by overwork and exams, stress or anxiety. Something of my doing, or my response to something of my doing.

Then I found out I had an autoimmune disease. And if we’re going to get all psychological about it, it’s like having the mutant spawn of Hannibal Lecter, the self-cannibal of all illnesses. We sufferers allegedly have an acute case of self-loathing with a side order of death wish.

That’s a metaphoric sledgehammer with which to clobber the ever-increasing number of sufferers.

Why do I need this illness?

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The press was powerful and intoxicating (Part 9)

After the latest issue of Monty’s Mouth was distributed, our junior high school’s collective of burnouts, jocks and nerds would spend five minutes smelling the paper it was printed on, hoping for a high off the pungent smelling mix of isopropanol and methanol — the duplicating fluid used in the ditto machine. This was the era when cooking sprays like Pam were huffed out of plastic bags and kids hung out near the pump while their dad filled the gas tank.Working for

Working for Monty’s Mouth was like school-sanctioned substance abuse. Continue reading