Tag Archives: narrative non-fiction

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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Out of the frying pan (Part 20)

I’d like to torque my personal narrative and claim that I left my ‘dream job’ following an epiphany: journalism is not a cure for lupus.

Except, I wasn’t that astute.

These days, there are many books written for the chronically ill about how to scale back your dreams and still find career success. Despite Lupus, written by a former NBC producer, quit her job to control the constant flares of her illness, which eventually attacked her kidneys and arguably the most serious manifestation of lupus (a stage I didn’t yet have to worry about). The writer encouraged readers to work smart, or in bite-sized chunks, and sometimes not at all. Fabulupus (yes, that’s really the title), is filled with similar advice.

When I was a young reporter, there were no “self-help” books about how to manage your workload, ask for support from your employer, or even disclose an illness. And there was also no wise counsel from medical professionals.

Instead, my rheumatologist, one of the best in Toronto, fed my personal mythology that I thrived on stress. How else to explain that all of the blood tests to measure the severity of my disease activity were sky high, but I wasn’t defeated by the chronic fatigue, arthritis or the ripping pain of pericarditis (inflammation around the lining of the heart) or pleurisy (inflammation of the lining around my lungs)? Somehow stress gave me energy, or so his pep talk went.

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Journalism 201: Remember to bring your prednisone to prison (Part 16)

“Don’t forget to take their picture.”

As I’d find out, not the best advice for a reporter sent to sneak into a third-world prison.

I was heading to Trinidad to interview two imprisoned teenage drug mules who had attempted to smuggle three suitcases of marijuana back to Canada. Both 17, they’d been sentenced to eight years in an adult prison, filled with murderers on death row.

The Star wanted the boys’ story.

It hadn’t started out as my story. A new hire, a summer student heading to Columbia University’s journalism school in the fall, had been following the case and already called the prison warden asking to interview the boys. Although she had a hunger for foreign assignments and a passport filled with stamps, she was too green to go.

Instead, I was assigned to show up at the prison, say I was a cousin, get their story and a photo: proof of life for the front page. Continue reading

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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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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