There is a running joke amongst my family and friends that I tend to think the worst when it comes to an ailment or illness. My behavior often involves consulting with Dr Google and self-diagnosing something exotic when the true diagnosis is often solved with a pain killer. But alongside the jokes I usually instigate, I acknowledge there is some health-related anxiety.
And it’s no wonder when much of my time at work and home is consumed with learning about complex and challenging symptoms associated with Myhre syndrome. It requires a constant awareness of my son’s health because things can change quickly, so it was somewhat of a surprise that this summer, my own health has been very much the focus.
I had a seizure.
Just a small one, and so far, it hasn’t been repeated, but still, it’s a red flag to stop and listen to what your body is trying to tell you.
Having been fortunate enough never to have had a health emergency, it gave me a new perspective on being the patient. And in this case, and as was the case during my two labors, the people witnessing it had much more trauma than I did.
I’d been out for a lovely day with my best friend, and we were staying in a bed and breakfast on the Kent coast in the UK. It was early morning; we’d chatted, I’d sent a few messages on my phone, and then I’d gotten up from the bed to open the window. The handle was at the top, so I’d raised both arms to open it.
And then it was black.
I did not remember a thing until I came around by the side of the bed, crumpled between a side table that I’d landed on next to the lampshade I’d squished. My friend witnessed the convulsions, staring, dilated eyes, and non-responsiveness. I’m glad I had no idea, and just sorry she had to go through it.
At first, we did the very British thing of discussing if we should cancel our planned coastal hike and instead call the doctor when we returned from our day out. We’re both Monty Python fans, and it was reminiscent of the Holy Grail and the “Tis but a scratch” scene with The Black Knight. Five minutes later, we then decided that we’d call 111 (a triage to 999 calls), who, it turned out, were much more concerned than we were, and 30 mins later, an ambulance arrived and took me into A&E.
For the next hour, my body shook, and this time, I knew why. I was in shock, and despite many people asking me if I was cold, I just assured them that I was anxious. In some small way I remember it being quite cathartic to say it out loud, when often it’s such a hidden feeling. My therapist almost high-fived me when I told her of this full-body reaction to what had happened. “This is amazing! Your body did exactly what I’d hoped it would do. It was processing the trauma and getting it out of your body. Gold star behavior!”
The tests were all clear, including the brain CT scan, and we were sent home with some precautions to take, like a driving ban and a referral for further investigations that would continue back in the US.
My body might have got a gold star in its response to the trauma of the event, but the next two weeks were a mental challenge, especially because of the health anxiety that I work hard at controlling. The most disconcerting thing was wondering if it would happen again because there had been no warning. I’ve fainted before, and there are warning signs with that, which, if you’re fast enough, can help you from falling. This one came out of nowhere in terms of a physical alarm system.
But in retrospect, had I been pushing my body too hard? We’d flown in six days previously, I’d missed an entire night’s sleep on the flight over, and then the boys had been all over the place with their sleep, and I think I averaged four hours a night in the lead-up to this event.
There is an emotional overload that also happens when you live abroad. Not seeing your family or friends for often 12 months at a time means that in the lead-up and during the visit, emotions are heightened, and there are some big questions and big answers. It’s not the usual quick cup of tea catching up. It’s Myhre updates, life updates, kids who are out of routine and feeling big things too.
The older I get and the more experience I have with the power of my mental health, the more I understand the physical manifestations it can bring. Perhaps this was an extreme version of getting sick on the much-craved holiday when your body finally gets a break and responds to the lead-up it’s been put through.
So, I’m back to doing the things that I know help. Fresh air, gentle exercise, therapy, enough sleep, and making time to do what I enjoy. As for the rest, I am scheduled for more tests and follow-ups, but they suspect it was a one-off. As my doctor said, “We all have a threshold, and sometimes your body gets to a point where it simply tips over.”
We push, we strive, we learn to live with pressure, and we can put up with so damn much but at what cost?
My license is still revoked until at least early October, and the results of the more in-depth testing. Cycling is my new friend, and each day, I average around 8 miles with Josh hooked on the back in a trailer and my eldest on his own bike. Guess what? It’s an absolute joy. The crisp morning air, the chats as we cycle, the fun of whizzing passed all the school traffic, and the chance to move your body and feel that benefit.
Ok, life, I hear you.
I understand this lesson you’re giving me, and I promise to keep paying attention.