“As Long As It’s Healthy”

Posted on May 11, 2010 by ledwards

Recently, a group of us had a conversation about how far back our memories went.

“Do you have memories from when you were two or three?” my husband asked me.

“Yes, but they are mostly traumatic,” I said. I was sort of joking, mainly for the benefit of the people around us, but let’s put some emphasis on the sort of.

As much as I hate to type it, and as much as they don’t reflect the much more diverse experience of my childhood, my clearest, earliest memories all involve sickness: wheeling my little pink suitcase down the stairs en route to a surgery at age two; standing in my crib in murky pre-dawn light, crying because everything hurt; the many-week stay in a hospital isolation ward in nursery school.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful childhood—parents who loved and advocated for me; older brothers who supported me; friends and family who worked around illness. When I could, we traveled to exciting places. I spent summers on Cape Cod, where I saw my cousins and grandparents every day and I could start to recover from the infections that ravaged me during the school year. I was fortunate to attend good schools and had a wide range of extracurricular experiences. This isn’t to say illness wasn’t ever-present, because it was, but it did not overwhelm or define these other experiences.

But my earliest memories are not the ones the pictures in photo albums portray. They are not the birthday parties at Papa Gino’s or the play dates or the Christmas mornings we lined up for pictures. They are vivid and visceral: the smell of rubbing alcohol as the IV nurse prepped my ankle since my arms were all used up; the harsh white sunlight of my room in isolation; the smell of the artificial strawberry flavor they used in my anesthesia mask over and over, a smell that to this day causes me to dry heave immediately.

This has been on my mind lately, as we prepare for the arrival of our long-awaited child. People often ask me if I have a preference for a girl or a boy.

“As close to full term as possible,” I give as my sole preference (mainly because when I say “alive” people look at me strangely.)

“As long as it’s healthy,” they will counter, and I nod my head.

(1. I don’t really like to use the word “it” in this context but it’s a common saying. 2. We actually tried to find out the gender last week, figuring we might have enough surprises to contend with during this pregnancy, but the baby had other plans that involved tightly pressing his or her legs together the whole time. Baby 1, parents 0.)

“As long as it’s healthy.”

It’s the universal comment people make, and with good reason.

Of course, of course I want my child to be healthy. I might not be able to give him or her many of the things that I had—for example, it’s far too early to consider siblings but it’s complicated terrain. But if he or she could grow up healthy, it would mean the world to me. Like any parent, if I could spare him or her my experiences and if I could avoid the heartache I know my mother went through watching it unfold for her child, I would be so grateful for both of us.

I know my most serious condition (PCD) will not be passed on to our child. Beyond that, we’re in the same boat all parents are: we hope for the best. We won’t give in to worrying about the what-if’s until someone tells us we need to. I joke often that my husband is made of hearty Midwestern stock and it’s true—his family members are literally some of the healthiest people I’ve ever seen, the type of healthy I didn’t even know existed until I met them.

“At least we’ve got that going for us,” I’ll say.

But sometimes, “as long as it’s healthy” gives me pause. Perhaps it’s because I over-think things or perhaps my tendency to be a bit contrary is exacerbated by pregnancy hormones or what, but sometimes the phrase gets old. Because this thing is, I wasn’t born healthy. In fact, several weeks premature and with collapsed lungs and pneumonia is pretty much the opposite of healthy. But I’m here, and living a full life, and have many positive experiences that outweigh the illness ones. I have no regrets.

So I smile and nod when people say this, as it is something I want so much for my child. But as I can attest to from my own life and from watching members of my family, we never know what curveballs will come our way. While health is my greatest wish, if something comes up I take comfort in knowing I have a lot of experience in illness and advocacy I can put to good use for our child. And I will be able to tell him or her that it is okay, that he or she might struggle more than others but that this life will be a wonderful one.

Transitions

Posted on April 29, 2010 by ledwards

This week is National Infertility Awareness Week.

I’m posting this a little late in the week because I’ve been struggling to figure out how to approach this on the heels of my recent pregnancy announcement and musings on what this development might mean for my blog.

If you’ve read our story as outlined in the announcement post, then you know that infertility is still very much a part of our experience and our pregnancy.

I’ve written about the complexities of chronic illness and infertility several times over the past several months/years, but still many of the specific details of our journey remain offline. That’s just what works for us. But over the last few years, I’ve found myself reading infertility blogs more regularly than I’ve read chronic illness blogs. The humor, grit, empathy, and authenticity I’ve discovered in so many women’s stories have been both informative and inspiring.

I never wanted to turn my blog into an infertility blog. Rather, I wanted to discuss infertility within the context of chronic illness and explore the overall challenges of building a family despite illness, whichever path that entailed. I’ve always been a strong champion of the idea that specific symptoms and disease labels are less important than the universal issues we face as patients: acceptance, guilt, or control, etc.

I’ve realized the same holds true in the infertility community. We all have different stories and different reasons for our struggles. In my case, it was easy to feel a little isolated: unlike so many women (and men), I don’t have reproductive problems aside from those caused by my lung disease. I mean, how many people are out there writing posts about a genetic lung disease making them infertile? The precipitating issue and the ensuing pregnancy challenges my illnesses pose are indeed rare, but the overall experience is similar: we all have to fight really hard for something that is natural and automatic for other people, and the avenues we ultimately take to build our families often differ from most of the people in our lives.

As I processed all of these thoughts this week, the link between what I wanted to say about the future of this blog and National Infertility Awareness Week suddenly became clear: it’s all about transition.

People who experience infertility transition from thinking pregnancy is a given to realizing it will be a struggle. Often, the question moves from when pregnancy will happen to when parenthood will happen, because so many of us who go through this do not end up with a viable pregnancy. It’s a transition in the expectations we had for our families and for the process we thought would be involved.

A colleague and friend of mine remarked that “the waiting makes it all the more precious” and I could not agree more. If there’s one thing we all share, it’s the waiting, the excruciating, mentally and physically exhausting waiting. For those of us fortunate to have some sort of a happy ending, hopefully the preciousness of it is universal, too.

I hope I never take a second of this for granted, knowing the four years of difficulties that went into it and knowing there are women who are not as fortunate, women who have to transition into totally new realities for their lives, ones that may not include children.

So while we’re discussing transitions, I so appreciate all the warm wishes and support as we transition from infertility to high-risk pregnancy and impending parenthood.

I do plan to discuss our pregnancy, but within the context of chronic illness and, again, the more universal issues of parenting with chronic illness. This won’t become a pregnancy or motherhood blog, and for many reasons: the privacy of our expanding family; my readers still living through infertility; adhering to the main purpose of this blog, which is to discuss chronic illness in young adults. I’m not a belly-shot person, and if I write letters to our child, they, like a lot of this personal journey, will remain offline. When I do have pregnancy stories and moments I think will resonate with the community of young adults living with chronic illness, I will definitely share them.

In fact, I’ve got a bunch of posts in mind already, tidbits I’ve been storing up for a few months now.

But this week? This week is about transition, so I will hold off. I’m getting there, and I’m so grateful to have you along for the ride, and so grateful to have learned so much from so many of you as we’ve progressed.

Are You a Health Activist?

Posted on April 23, 2010 by ledwards

Last week, I had the chance to attend WEGO Health’s first Health Activist Meet-Up here in Boston. It was my true public excursion in weeks due to infections and related pregnancy issues, and I am so glad I was able to go.

The WEGO folks are infectiously enthusiastic about health care and social media, and from the “pick three hashtags to describe yourself” to the lively chitchat before and after the breakout sessions, the vibe was friendly and dynamic. I had the chance to catch up with friends like Cheryl Alkon of Managing the Sweetness Within and meet several new bloggers and Health Activists, like Karen of Bitter-Sweet.

I was pleased to have the opportunity to lead one of the three sessions, one called “The Road to Activism: How to Turn Your Passion into Activism.” As I prepared for the event, I thought about what it was I was passionate about and what it takes for anyone to turn passion for an idea or a cause into activism.

I used the following steps as initial talking points:

1. Identifying Your Passion
2. Recognizing Your Strengths/Becoming an Expert
3. Finding Your Voice
4. Locating Your Niche/Building Your Community

Luckily, I had a dream group of articulate, interesting people and from those brief talking points, a true conversation emerged. Of the many take-away points we covered, one that stands out to me is the idea that everyone becomes a blogger, author, advocate, etc (in sum, a Health Activist) for different reasons and wants different things from the community in which they join. For example, the newly diagnosed might want validation or commiseration, while “veterans” might be more interested in sharing experiences or offering wisdom from experiences. Successfully turning passion into activism depends partly on knowing what you offer, what you want out of the experience, and connecting with like-minded people.

In my case, I’ve always been passionate about writing and after an entire lifetime of illness and hospitals, I realized maybe I could use that passion to share experiences and lessons learned. My passion is chronic illness in younger adults, because so many of us live with it and face challenges unique to this stage in life. As I joked the night of the event, I am equal-opportunity when it comes to chronic illness—I don’t focus on any one condition or disease, partly because I have several conditions, because I am a rare disease patient, and mainly because I believe the universal challenges of life with illness unite us.

But that’s not what works for everyone, and that’s why I think the whole idea of turning passion into activism is so interesting—there are so many outlets and ways to express ideas and build communities. I think the robust diabetes online community is a great example of how successful a community of people contributing perspectives on life with a particular condition can be.

What’s your reason?

Other compelling questions we discussed that evening were deceptive in their simplicity:

What do we mean by activism? When do you become an activist?

Some of us were of the opinion that it can happen when you don’t even realize that’s what is actually happening. It could be the first time you write a blog post, the first time you get a reader comment that really stays with you, the first time you put yourself out there.

But I’m interested in what you have to say-what do you think when you hear the word “activist?” When does that transformation from merely being passionate to becoming an activist occur?

Thanks again to WEGO Health for a great evening that set the stage for relevant and inspiring conversations. Looking forward to the next meet-up!

The Rest of the Story: Children and Chronic Illness

Posted on April 20, 2010 by ledwards

In some ways, I’ve been drafting and revising this post in my head and heart for almost four years.

I first touched on chronic illness and infertility in August of 2006, with this post on numbers, statistics, and hope. Since then, we’ve talked about can versus should, the tough decisions potential parents with chronic illness face, and other universal aspects of having a family. But the behind-the-scenes story? That was never fodder for this blog.

It’s been 44 months since we first started trying to have a family. That’s three years, eight months. Not as long as some, I know, but too long. About eighty percent of our marriage, in fact. Forty-four months later, I see this long journey as characterized by moments of awareness, a series of changes in thoughts and assumptions that challenged our perspectives.

There were moments of realization:

Along the way, I fell completely in love with other people’s children, and realized emotionally what I knew intellectually: unconditional love does not adhere to boundaries of biology or relationship. Parenthood does not depend on pregnancy, something I knew but didn’t really know until I knew. With that, we both realized that no matter which path we took to build our family, we would do the right thing for us and it would be our first choice, not a fallback plan.

I’ve realized no matter how hard we try and how much they really do care, there are people who will not understand, who cannot give us what we need or speak the words we are desperate to hear. I’ve realized that this is okay. I’ve learned to let go.

Similarly, no matter how many consults and additional opinions we’ve sought, no matter how meticulous and deliberate we have been about our decisions, there will be people who judge. And while hard, that too is okay. I’ve realized that doing right by each other and our potential child is all that matters—with that realization comes some freedom.

There were moments of isolation:

Not surprisingly, my ongoing fascination with language spills over into this journey. If you take the adoption route you become fluent in terms like open adoption, or the semantics of birth parents, first parents, adoptive parents, etc. If you look into surrogacy, you’re flooded with euphemisms: at our hospital, the preferred term is “gestational carrier,” and the recommended agencies have all sorts of feel-good names. If you pursue assisted reproduction you start speaking in code: IUI, IVF, 8dp3dt, BFN, BFP, PIO.

But either way, you no longer speak the same language as most of the people around you. You speak the language of “if,” when so many others take for granted the “when.” And some days, surrounded by the “when’s,” the easy talk of when pregnancy will happen and the carefree assumptions about when siblings will arrive, is a lonely place to be.

In another twist of language, I learned that putting the words “very early” in front of “miscarriage” does not mean it is not sad. I wondered if anyone could see the shadows of that loss when I wrote about disappointment. Private sadness is indeed isolating, however necessary it is.

Of course, there were darker moments:

I remember one particular day last spring. It was the first bright, sunny day that thawed winter’s slush, and after a terrible doctor’s appointment it was the first day we truly felt, however fleeting, there was little hope. What good were all these options people kept talking about, I kept talking about, if none of them seemed attainable?

“You know the hardest part of all this? Waking up and going through the day and acting normal when it feels like the world is crashing down,” I said to my husband. For many weeks, when I woke up and realized the situation had not changed, I felt I was in a living nightmare. I hated people to hear or see me cry, so I simply didn’t talk to many people.

Another sunny spring day we all waited in a hospital waiting room, anxious for the arrival of a much-loved baby. I kept jumping up to take cell phone calls in the hallway, re-scheduling consults and high-risk assessments. I was angry, not because I was being told I might never carry children while hanging out in the maternity ward, but because even on this happy day when I wanted to be fully present in the joy, infertility was literally stalking me. It had already taken so much.

We made a cocoon for ourselves so we could filter out the white noise and weigh what we wanted versus what is most fair to a child. Anytime you bring the “can versus should” element into a conversation about children, the responsibility inherent in that is staggering. We take that responsibility more seriously than anything else in our lives.

In these moments, I, we, have learned sadness and grief, frustration and disappointment. But we’ve learned much more. As hard as it was to hide what weighed us down, it is even harder to hide good news, joyful news, especially when it has been such a long time coming and has exacted such a toll.

And so I am pleased to share what is truly a moment of joy: This fall, we are expecting a baby.

It still feels strange to type those words. Despite the many ultrasounds, the many doctor appointments, the talk of showers and strollers, sometimes it is hard to believe this is happening, this thing that happens for other people.

I am incredibly grateful and excited. When I first found out I cried so hard my poor husband thought I had yet more disappointing news for him and instantly went into consolation mode. I simply did not have the words to explain happy tears.

We have pictures proudly displayed on our fridge and multiple teams of doctors monitoring every breath, doctors who never forgot to say “congratulations” amidst all the precautions and variables. What a beautiful word.

We kept this news to ourselves for a long time. It’s high-risk. I’ve already been hospitalized. We’ve lived through loss. I have jobs and policies and details I needed in place. We are fiercely protective of this little one. But at 16 weeks I am getting comfortable telling people, and I love sharing news that is actually good.

And through this all, there were (and still are) moments of relativity:

Infertility was merely the starting point. Infertility with a guaranteed high-risk pregnancy and chronic illness? It’s a tough combination to contemplate, but everything is relative. We have to focus on the tough road ahead of us, and I know we can do it.

Baby showers and pregnancy announcements never bothered me, and seeing babies always brought me joy instead of reminding me what I did not have. I pretended I was immune to a lot of the emotional fallout from infertility, that I was focused solely on risk analysis and decision-trees. Not true.

Now that I am pregnant, I feel the aftershocks of infertility. I see the many bits and pieces it chipped away, and the bits and pieces the high-risk nature threatens. The first time I checked out the maternity section of a clothing store, I couldn’t relax. I was in a cold sweat; I felt like a trespasser. Now that I’m closer to needing new clothes, it’s getting a little more real, a little easier.

After 44 months of this, my gut response to the topic of so-called “push presents” is, isn’t the baby the gift? My mother asked me recently if I had a preference for a boy or girl. “Alive,” I told her. All I want is a baby as close to full term as possible and for both of us to come home from the hospital and be okay. That is the gift. That is everything.

Lastly, there have been moments of growth:

We often sit at night in my husband’s office, soon to be the nursery. He uses the desktop computer, and I sit on the bed with my laptop. We talk about paint colors, and even well into the first trimester I would stop, mid-conversation.

“Are we allowed to talk like this, to plan a nursery?” I ask.

“You are pregnant. We are having a baby. It is okay,” he reassures me.

So I exhale and smile and think about meeting this little person whose waving arms and bent legs on the screen make my husband smile from his eyes and put all the oxygen I need back in the room as if by magic. And I allow myself.

And when I get overwhelmed by the realities of this high-risk pregnancy, when I worry that everything I am doing to keep us both healthy will not be enough, I think of this baby squirming around, a baby who is thriving. This is the only type of pregnancy I will ever know, and I embrace it fully. I allow myself.

I am proud of us, proud that we came through this journey intact, a better team than we started. We always told ourselves that somehow we would be parents. Only a few months into dating, we knew this was what we wanted for each other and with each other. We had no way of knowing just how long a journey this would be or how it would end, but we wouldn’t change any of it.

So I am working on a new lexicon, one centered on “when.” We talk about the baby’s library or imagine walking him or her to school up the street and talk about the kind of parents we want to be, and it is no longer strictly hypothetical. We imagine new moments, new possibilities, and we are buoyed by the one word that started this whole conversation 44 months ago, the one word that is important than ever: hope.

Book Review—Balancing Diabetes with Pre-existing Diabetes: Healthy Mom, Healthy Baby

Posted on April 14, 2010 by ledwards

I don’t even remember how I first stumbled onto Cheryl Alkon’s blog, Managing the Sweetness Within a few years ago. After all, I wasn’t a type 1 diabetic, nor was I undertaking a pregnancy with diabetes. But I know why I kept coming back anyway: her humor, accessible tone, frank candor, and overall pragmatic, down to earth attitude.

I totally dug her style, and since we’ve become friends in real life since I can attest to the fact she’s that funny and refreshing in real life. When she first shared her book proposal with me, I was so excited—I could see her book on managing pregnancy with diabetes unfolding, and I knew it was a necessary resource.

I am proud to see her project come to fruition, not because she published a book (though that is a feat all by itself) but because she published such a good book. Balancing Pregnancy with Pre-existing Diabetes: Healthy Mom, Healthy Baby, which pubs this week, is a comprehensive and essential guide to planning and living through a pregnancy with diabetes.

With the meticulousness of a seasoned professional journalist (she went to Columbia Journalism, after all), Cheryl interviewed dozens (seriously, dozens) of patients with diabetes, as well as physicians and other experts, to offer hands-on advice and information. In addition to anecdotal experience, the book is crammed with well-researched facts and resources. From pre-conception blood sugar control to the intricacies of each trimester to the delivery and beyond, Cheryl covers all the bases.

What’s more, she is diligent about including multiple perspectives. Struggling with infertility in addition to diabetes? She has tons of tips and resources. Contemplating an alternative birth plan or curious if a doula might work for you? She has plenty of information on that, too.

Just need some encouragement that a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby are indeed attainable? That’s where Cheryl’s veteran experience as a type 1 diabetic and the many patients she interviewed prove so valuable. It’s one thing to hear from doctors or disease organizations what is possible, but it’s another altogether to hear from people who’ve actually walked the walk: they’ve dealt with first trimester lows, third trimester complications, and figured out the best way to deal with their insulin pumps during labor and delivery. They’ve juggled breast-feeding and fluctuating insulin needs, and know how (and when) to advocate for themselves.

But what I love is that it isn’t just about the content. Cheryl brings that same accessible, engaging tone she has on her blog to the book, evident from the opening lines of the first chapter:

“As a woman with long-term type 1 diabetes, I know this disease intimately. Reading this with type 1? Hi—you are my people. Type 1 is very-much-insulin-dependent, ain’t-going-away-with-weight-loss-or- after-the-kid-is-born diabetes. Type 1, despite what much of the mass media or well-meaning but clueless people will tell you, is a separate condition from the far more common type 2 diabetes or gestational diabetes.” (p.3)

But don’t worry-this book isn’t exclusively for T1s. If you have type 2 diabetes , there is plenty of material to meet your needs, and its conversational tone makes even the most serious subject matter in the book seem less daunting.

As a writer who published a book on chronic illness in young adults because I felt there was nothing out there that addressed that audience, I really appreciate a book that fills a true void. For the many readers out there contemplating a pregnancy with diabetes or managing one right now, this is the definitive resource for you.

Down the Rabbit Hole: When Chronic Illness and Work Conflict

Posted on April 4, 2010 by ledwards

“Can I write you a note? Would that help?” my nurse practitioner asked delicately. She went on to add (just as delicately) that I really needed a few days off to recover from my recent hospitalization.

Part of me wanted so desperately to accept her offer, to tell her a note would help and that I could take a few days. I wanted to give in, to crawl into bed and not get out.

But, it was the busiest and most intense period of the semester, busy enough that I found myself commenting on drafts at 4am in the hospital, grateful I did not have a roommate so I could keep the lights on. I was too uncomfortable to sleep, and I’d hit that early-morning window where Law and Order reruns abated for a few hours.

The numerous side projects I was committed to—both on campus and in my writing life—were all ramping up, and everywhere I turned it was apparent to me that too many people would be affected by my absence if I checked out of life for a few days. It’s one thing for me to be sick and fall behind, but it’s not acceptable to me for others to get behind because I am sick. Thanks to wifi, my laptop, and the impossibility of sleeping in a hospital I’d managed to keep up the charade of business as usual while I was an inpatient, but it was exhausting.

The night I was discharged from the hospital I stayed up past 3am trying to catch up on work, and woke up early the next day for chest PT and another 18 hours of work and catch-up. That set the tone for the next week and a half. By the time I had my discharge follow-up appointment, I’d managed no more than four hours of sleep per night: coughing, wheezing, and fighting for air made it hard to sleep; steroids and stacked nebulizer treatments that make me jittery and wide awake made it even more difficult.

Things were not going well. In the ongoing quest for balance and the negotiation of priorities when it comes to employment and illness, I was floundering. Free-falling, actually.

Since this fall I’ve repeated the mantra of “just make it work.” Find a way to get it done, don’t complain, use every second of time efficiently. When you’re sick, you don’t have the luxury of not working when you don’t feel well, or you’d rarely ever work. People do things even when they don’t feel up to it, that’s part of life. Whatever else happens, just make it work. Get results, don’t make excuses.

And for months, that mantra served me well. I’ve made choices that translate into a consistent 7-day work-week; aside from Thanksgiving Day and two days at Christmas, the last time I had a true day off, including weekends, was sometime last summer. I had (and have) my reasons for these decisions, and do not regret them. I went into this with my eyes wide open and cannot complain about a situation I created. The trade-offs—a big step in academic career development; a second book deal; expansion of my freelance consulting business—are worth the sacrifice.

But all bets are off when my “normal” level of illnesses becomes really acute. Part of it is physical-the exhaustion of infections that last for months, the toll fighting for air takes, the impact of weeks and weeks of poor sleep, hospitalizations, etc.

However, more it is mental and emotional, and is a result of a lifetime of pushing. It’s always jarring for me to go from the hospital right back into “real life” without a chance to stop and process. Since the work always follows me into the hospital (when I was getting stabilized in the ER this last time, my main concern was how to handle my in-person class the next day), it always feels like one big blur.

In a throwback to my old patterns, the longer this recent exacerbation dragged on, the more determined I was to make sure being sick did not impact my ability to do my jobs. When I first got home I turned around 40 rough drafts with substantive comments in two days. I attended meetings and jumped into debates and responded to clients. I’m pretty sure no one knew that days before I’d been hooked up to oxygen or that walking and talking at the same time was not yet possible.

Interestingly, though, the more I built up the façade, the more a little bit of me wished it wasn’t quite so convincing, that I had some sort of buffer. I felt like my grip on things was dangerously tenuous; one tiny slip or extra deadline or new symptom and everything would come crashing down.

For someone so wired to be in control and so focused on not slipping on any of these details, I felt (correction: I still feel) very out of control.

I know something has to give. Even though things are getting a little better by now, I will not fully recover if I keep up this pace. When I found myself negotiating my way out of a second admission last week from the Starbucks at work, armed with a briefcase and a hospital bag (doesn’t everyone bring one of those to work?), I realized I’d reached a tipping point. This is not sustainable. In fact, it’s sort of crazy.

I am not balancing things at all and I know it but I am torn by conflicting responsibilities-to my students, clients, colleagues and myself. I am torn my stubborn pride about never giving in and pragmatism that says if I keep this up I won’t be of much use.

So I have some decisions to make. I have to prioritize my life so I make it through the rest of the semester as effective as I normally am.

And just one good night sleep? That would go a long way, I think.

Where’s the Patient in Health Care Reform?

Posted on March 28, 2010 by ledwards

I’ll admit, it was a bit conspicuous. After over a year of posts comparing facts in health reform, looking at private versus public insurance plans, even meeting with President Bill Clinton to discuss health care, the week the monumental new legislation passes, I am silent.

I know, right?

Here’s the thing. I wanted to comment, to turn on the analytical part of my brain that has logged into press calls and covered health care summits.

However, I was too busy being a patient to attend to this blog. More specifically, I watched late-night cable coverage of the vote from my hospital bed, where hours of stacked medications, oxygen, and all sorts of pwerful drugs tried to stabilize me. I managed one paltry Tweet about it, but my IV beeped as soon as I moved my arm to type and the whole not-getting-enough-air thing made me foggy.

When you’re working so hard for breath, there is little room for anything else.

In a strange way, perhaps that is somewhat fitting. Over the past few weeks, it seems like the rhetoric, the scare tactics, the fighting over funding and abortion and so many other flash points have totally taken the focus away from the one group at the heart of this debate: patients.

“The only people who are happy with their health care are either rich or healthy,” I joked to a relative, one who is vehemently opposed to health care reform (or, at least this version of it). But there is truth there-most health plans are designed for healthy people who rarely need to use them, who do not have to wage appeals and write letters and make so many important life decisions based mainly on the availability of those plans. If health insurance is something you only have to think about when it’s time for open enrollment, then it is a lot easier to shove it off as someone else’s problem.

If you’re fortunate enough to have chronic illness and can afford the platinum plans where you do not worry about annual caps or having treatments denied then you do not live with the same sense of precariousness and vulnerability millions of Americans do.

Let me be clear about this: I have reasonably good insurance and have always been fortunate to have reasonably good insurance. I fight my battles regarding medical necessity (complicated by having rare diseases, for sure) and I still pay a lot of money out of pocket but I cannot complain. However, whether I’m feeling okay or lying in a hospital bed, I work seven days a week in order to get those benefits-a full-time job, part-time jobs, consulting work, and book-writing. I have made huge, career-altering decisions based primarily on health benefits. Physically, emotionally, mentally, I have made compromises and adjustments in the name of health insurance. A lapse in coverage has always been a catastrophic thought for me.

For me, simply being born tagged me with the label of “pre-existing condition” and for three decades I have lived underneath the bureaucratic burden of that title. Knowing that is one fear patients with existing chronic illness don’t have to live with anymore is huge. Knowing that down the line, I could have more flexibility in terms of choosing career options based on proclivity and preference and not benefits is equally huge.

I find so much of the drama around this bill ironic. Some frame it as a right to life issue but because I excel at being the devil’s advocate, what about the lives of millions of Americans that will end too quickly because of lack of appropriate care? Some focus solely on the economic issues around the legislation, but those of us who’ve been paying attention to chronic disease long before it became the hot-button issue for discordance and grandstanding also know that we already spend 75 cents out of every health care dollar on chronic illness and that prevention is much less expensive than the complicated interventions that are standard operating procedure right now.

But honestly? Right now I can’t even start unraveling all these threads.

Intellectually I understand the concerns of, say, small business owners or entrepreneurs worried about how the bill is funded. I understand people who fear the government may not be up to the task of administering such a broad program. I understand this legislation is far from perfect, and as we’ve seen here in Massachusetts, I know that when you implement a sweeping change you need to prepare for the consequences, both intended and unintended.

But all of the rhetoric, analysis, or debate in the world does not change the fact that for many, many patients out there, the debate is anything but rhetorical and the consequences extreme.

I’d done everything right to manage my conditions but still ended up in the hospital. I can only imagine the bill for the diagnostic tests, the x-rays, the IV meds, the nebulizers, the pills, etc. But what is truly unimaginable is what would happen if I had to pay for that hospital stay completely out of pocket.

My house, my health, my family, everything I’ve worked so hard to maintain, would all be threatened.

As I lay there, covered in EKG leads and medical tape and beeping from multiple monitors, the ticker tape reports of the “Baby-killer” outburst and protests flickered across the screen. I adjusted my oxygen and raised the volume a little bit louder as our leaders began to speak.

It is easy to be reactionary and inflammatory when you have the luxury of health, I thought. When you’re consumed with survival mode, suddenly things are a lot more simplified.

As much as I don’t want to be defined by this role, I am a patient. And what better place to be reminded of our vulnerability in this system than in the hospital?

I am one of the lucky ones. I know when the bill arrives or I need to schedule another follow-up appointment with a specialist that these events will be insignificant.

But shouldn’t it be that way for everyone else out there trying to survive?

Hopefully soon I’ll have something more insightful or analytic to add, but for now I am compelled to focus on the one thing that seems to get shoved to the side in all of this: the needs of the patient with existing illness.

Doctors as Advocates?

Posted on March 20, 2010 by ledwards

Yikes. It’s been awhile.

How are you?

Usually when I have gaps it means a few things: I don’t have too much I want to say and don’t want to post minutiae (I still want to be useful); I am acutely sick; or I have too many ideas and can’t get out of my own way.

In this case, a combination of a flooded house (hello, epic rain and no electricity!), an infection, and a lot of thoughts that needed time to marinate lest they come out as an unproductive rant equaled silence.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written about the doctor-patient relationship, an important subject in Life Disrupted.

For the most part, that’s because I’ve had such good experiences the past couple years with doctors who don’t just manage my diseases with me but work towards helping me meet my specific life goals. When things don’t work, we change them up. When we’re up against a wall, we find a new way to try to improve my quality of life. When the conversations are difficult and the risks overwhelming, we talk things through. A lot.

This is what has me stewing. A loved one underwent major surgery recently, the third major surgery in two years. It was a complicated, grueling surgery that necessitated significant nerve, disc, and hardware involvement in the spine. The doctor, whom we’ll call Dr. Brilliant Surgeon (or, Dr. BS, which is supremely fitting) is just that- a brilliant surgeon. But in my opinion, he’s not a very good doctor.

For example, it took three weeks to follow up with the results of a CT scan that showed tremendous problems, even though his office knew the patient was in incapacitating, wheel chair-inducing pain and needed some answers on what to do. The excuse? The office was undergoing new training and couldn’t respond to phone calls.

My response? When you have a patient who cannot walk and whose life has grounded to a halt until you report back, you find the time to make a phone call. You make the time, as it were.

For example, literally minutes before the patient was wheeled into the OR, the doctor announced that the surgery he was about to perform would be much more complicated and its success would be much more limited than the patient had been told would be the case for weeks. I understand he was doing what he felt he had to do while he was in there and I agree it needed to be done. However, three minutes is not a fair amount of time to process a huge change and a completely different set of expectations, especially when the test results that dictated the change had been available for a long time. Having a scared, anxious patient who now feels everything has changed and there is no control over the situation is not the optimal way to start a surgery, and since this was not an emergency, there was no need for things to unfold that way.

For example, after the almost six-hour surgery the patient spent several days in the hospital before going to a rehab. Not once did Dr. Brilliant Surgeon check in on the patient to see how she was doing physically (never mind emotionally.) Apparently, it is “not his policy” to follow up, and those quotes are direct.

Does that rub anyone else the wrong way? The way I see it, a patient is still a doctor’s patient before and after the OR.

Or perhaps my expectations for Dr. BS are out of whack?

I am not one to indiscriminately doctor-bash. That is not helpful for productive. But watching this person suffer, and knowing even a tiny portion of that suffering would have been less if this doctor had taken the time to communicate or care, leaves me feeling angry and frustrated.

Contrast these examples to a conversation I had with a new doctor of mine the other day. I was discussing my lung doctor with him, since I knew they would be communicating with each other at some point in the near future.

“He’s the best. He’s such an advocate for me,” I said, without even realizing how much I was summing up in those few words.

For as much as I’ve written about the need for communication, for good rapport, for someone willing to think outside the box, this quality is just as important in a doctor. An advocate is someone who invests his or her time in your particular battles and helps you fight them, who invests in your success and recognizes the importance of your goals and priorities.

An advocate is someone who is willing to make an extra phone call, or write an extra letter, or set aside time to consult if it means that ultimately, you will receive the care you need.

An advocate is someone who realizes there is a lot more to a successful outcome (surgical or otherwise) than simply what data reveals.

We all deserve advocates.

Who Would I Be Without Illness?

Posted on March 7, 2010 by ledwards

For this week’s Patients For a Moment, founder Duncan Cross asks the question,

Who would you be without your illness?

He goes on to write, There’s a lot of emphasis in our community about staying positive, looking towards the future, optimism, et cetera – all of which has merit. But too much deliberate cheeriness denies us the ability to think and talk about what we’ve lost to our illnesses. We lose our ability to grieve for the person we wished to be, which seems to me an important part of adjusting to our circumstances. So the topic this time is that person, and how they would better, worse, or simply different than the person you are now?

Duncan Cross is one of the best patient bloggers on the Internet, in my humble opinion, and I’m glad he’s probing all of us like this because I too am bothered by the tendency to sugarcoat realities of illness among silver linings or attach maudlin sentiments to what can be demanding, painful circumstances.

I’ve mulled this question over several times the past few days. Indirectly, like in this post on illness and personality, I’ve touched on this question before.

Who would I be without illness?

When you’ve been sick your entire life, that becomes a much harder question to answer. I can’t mourn the “before” I never had, and I don’t spend much time speculating on the person I could have been otherwise because I am busy being and surviving. Illness has always been there, one of the few constants that remained predictable only in its unpredictability despite the many other changes in my life: high school, college, graduate school, career, marriage.

While I am at a point where illness is not the defining characteristic of my life, (and I know this because pushing back against or despite illness is no longer the main motivating force behind most of my decisions) clearly it is still present in nearly all of my choices and compromises.

It is impossible to pull illness out of the many threads that combine to make up the past thirty years, to take it away and see what would remain.

Certainly I can look at the accumulated losses over the years and see what could have been in those moments: all the birthdays, showers, holidays, vacations, weekend plans, family gatherings, and months of school I’ve missed over the years, all the disappointments that had me crying into my pillow as teenager and keep me awake at night as an adult.

There are definitely times when I wish those basic rights of passage that we often associate with living a “normal” life didn’t have to be so hard: What would it have been like to graduate from college with the same good GPA without having to study for tests in the ICU, or graduate from high school without a full year and half of it taken away from me, a blur of missed opportunities and make-up work?

What would it be like to live a life that wasn’t always in a state of catching up?

Or, what would it have been like to marry my husband without the “in sickness and in health” part of the vows already such an obvious and omnipresent part of our relationship? What would it feel like to dream about a future family with him without having to weigh so many competing risks and priorities, to be able to speak confidently in the language of “when” and not “if”?

And yet…

I know, here’s where you’re half-expecting, half-cringing, thinking I am going to say but it’s all been worth it and I’ve learned so much and I am a stronger person for it.

Don’t worry, didn’t I say earlier I don’t like a saccharine gloss applied to illness?

I don’t. Of course it would be nice to not have to fight so hard just to get to the starting line all the time. Of course I’ve had my fair share of anger and frustration and grief over that, and of course I realize that with progressive diseases those frustrations will grow more complicated.

That’s life. That’s the only life I’ve known and it’s the same life I grew up seeing for other family members.

There are some things I do know. For example, I’ve made a lot of negotiations in my career to accommodate illness and I know I might have made different choices if I were healthy, but I also know that no matter what else I might be doing, I would still be a writer. I would still have strong relationships with wonderful people, and who knows what other life obstacles would test our relationships besides illness.

I would still be a stubborn pain in the neck.

The thing is, I do not have regrets. I am proud of what I’ve been able to do and for me, to wish for what might have been, to wish for some hypothetical, abstract notion of “healthy,” chips away at what I have done.

For thirty years I have lived my life in extremes, and in the brief periods where things are stable I catch glimpses of what it would be like to live somewhere closer to the middle. So maybe that would be me minus illness, someone less extreme? But that could also mean someone with less determination or, as my husband says about me when I am exasperating, someone less feisty.

And I don’t know that I would want to make that compromise. My biggest strengths are indeed my biggest weaknesses and while illness may amplify those, I don’t think I’d want to be me without them.

Why I Participate in Medical Research

Posted on March 4, 2010 by ledwards

Um, it’s March.

How did that happen? In a blink, the late classes that used to start when it was dark now only end in the shadows of dusk, and tiny shoots of early spring flowers are poking through slushy dirt.

It’s been awhile. Actually, it’s been the longest stretch of time in between posts I think I’ve ever had. Usually, silence equals bad news in my world, but thankfully my absence is not the result of acute illness and fragmentation like it was when I made my confessions here last March.

Instead, it’s just a lot of medium-sized things piling up, leaving me standing in a pile of excuses and hating hearing the words coming out of my mouth.

You see, I meant to write a post this weekend in honor of Rare Disease Day, a cause that means so much to me. But I was out of town and then I got glutened, which totally threw me off my game. It’s a few days late, but my meek attempt at fulfilling an obligation I feel strongly about is to instead point you to my Rare Disease Day post from last year, since all the points still ring true.

(How ironic is it that on the heels of my last post on restaurants doing more to accommodate food allergies I went and got glutened for the first time in quite awhile? And this was after speaking with both an employee and a manager and being assured beyond all doubt the marinade on the chicken did not have wheat. Super. I know it wasn’t the lettuce underneath the chicken that made me wretchedly ill…)

And I meant to write and submit a post for this edition of Patients For a Moment that answered the questions: What is your relationship to illness? Is there a particular time when you wish illness wasn’t in the picture? Or is there a time when you find it’s easy to forget about illness?

But I didn’t, because each night that week I came home with the best of intentions but by the time I battled traffic and had chest PT it was already 8pm and I hadn’t started dinner and my work inbox needed me and man, my brain was tired. And as much as I wanted to elegantly dissect the ramifications of being a lifelong patient and never knowing what it was like to live without illness as my near-constant companion, I couldn’t get the words from my brain to the screen.

See? Excuses. Valid and truthful, yes, but in the end, meaningless.

But there’s something else I’ve been doing the past few weeks (months, really) that I don’t need to make excuses for, something that relates to the Rare Disease Day and to our identities as patients.

I’ve been participating in research studies. From broad public health studies launched in the ER to short, three-week surveys to long-term trials with blood work and follow-ups, I’ve jumped in whenever I’ve been approached by a research assistant. Sometimes, the studies have little value to my personal situation but are part of worthwhile projects in communicable diseases or prevention. Other times, the studies are directly related to what I live with and am going through.

I am not exaggerating when I say I wouldn’t be alive and certainly wouldn’t have the quality of life I do have were it not for medical research, for the thousands of participants or “subjects” who have volunteered for studies before me and for the researchers and scientists who launch these investigations.

From my point of view, any time I can participate in a research study it’s a tiny way of giving back, and of hopefully contributing to something that will positively impact other patients down the road.

For rare disease patients, the need for research is especially critical. So it may be a few days late and it may not be an official Rare Disease Day post, but consider this my public service announcement for the week.

And at least this is something I don’t have a lame excuse for these days!

Laurie Edwards

Writer, Teacher, Advocate