The Flamboyant Language of Blood
What a relief. Today I went to do a test at my GP’s office. It wasn’t a condition-related relief but the fact that she wasn’t wearing Crocs. Don’t trust doctors who wear those damn ugly slippers that elevated ugly to a whole new level of nastiness and make foot fetish even more disturbing than it already is. Instead she was wearing old people sneakers that suggest the presence of a medical insole beyond any doubt.
But it was a true fashion statement: she’s no longer the freshest fruit in the tree but the low-hanging are the easiest to pick. Judging by her helmet hairstyle, she’s owning it and rocking it. You can’t intimidate her, there’s a mirror on the wall and she knows those glasses make her look older than she is.
What’s more, the Morton Please Healthcare System in Florida banned wearing Crocs for their staff in 2008 due to safety concerns. I wouldn’t trust a doctor wearing them. My eyes would be bleeding at the sight and it would be enough to pinch my eyeball with a needle and spare the arm of marks that make you look like a heroin addict.
The world is turning in the right direction. Crocs are out, prescription weed is in. On the windowsill in her office there are potted orchids in full bloom. When you deal with people in various stages of decay, you need something that’s oozing life. The room is painted in powder pink, I’m sure Stethoscope Barbie would approve.
The waiting room is a Kafkian experience, with the reception desk surrounded by towers of grey file containers. Blue glass beads of a rosary hanging on the wall are dangling on a light breeze coming in through the open window. For people sitting next to me, that might be the only therapy they can still rely on. The very fact I had to drop by was frustrating. As I watched the vials fill up with the dark, red color of my blood cells, it felt very strange: releasing something so damaged, yet so vital out there. Who’d want drops of life infused with so much chemistry? It’s the closest to an out-of-body experience you can get without dying.
Afterwards, I eat an apple and drink a bottle of water to regain my usual composure. The nurse works with completely automatic motions. It reminds me of flight attendants with their crash course on dealing with a plane crash at the start of every flight. With the difference that there’s something insanely sexy about her routine in spite of its dark implications. The lab space is very different from my GP’s office. It has all the charm of a bomb shelter. There are others waiting their turn, clutching containers full of piss and stool. And every time you hope you won’t run into a familiar face because this place exposes all your vulnerabilities. I love my friends but I could do without seeing the color of their bodily fluids.
Time has a different dynamic when you measure it through the perspective of a chronic condition like epilepsy. Beyond markers like birthdays and holidays, the calendar is dotted with appointments, tests and therapy. You hide in a cocoon of your own making. You don’t want pity or overprotection. The well-intentioned inquiries regarding your health make you lie about your well-being to avoid about an unsolicited lengthy discussion about it with people whose expertise is reduced to the ability of providing a shoulder to cry on. Sometimes though, that just what you need.
It’s weird to open up to people who don’t know about this hidden part of your life. Their reactions tell a lot about how they regard you as a person. Maybe you need a seizure in front of them to see it’s not really harmless. But don’t feel obliged to teach others on how to deal with this all the time.
The burden of it is tiresome as it is without having to be the spokesperson as well. One time I had to explain seizures to a close relative and it felt extremely uncomfortable. The enthusiasm though is laudable, because it’s still a sort of a taboo. Especially with parents that don’t share this vital information with teachers out of fear it would lead to bullying of their kids.
When the test results come in, you see all the data on a sheet of paper, numbers and words that dismember you into a diagnosis reducing you to a mammal, rather than a human being. There’s a folder with a collection of paperwork regarding my health. Like a time machine, it spans from the 1980s when neurologists used typewriters to the current time when they were replaced by keyboards. Covid complicated the situation because the priorities changed, yet the needs of your own inner wiring stayed the same. And the last thing I needed was having to worry about a deadly virus too.
Bob Marley didn’t die due to his drug habits but an untreated melanoma on his toe. If I start obsessing about the domino-effect of untreated conditions, I hit the reset button, otherwise you could add hypochondria to the portfolio of my anxieties. That’s one of the few things you can’t heal because it’s constantly on the lookout for things that aren’t there, until they find something to rationalise their fears. We have come a long way in adressing taboos related to various minorities in our communities. But we still deny ourselves the courage to be open about our own health.
The HIV epidemic in the 1980s significantly contributed to homophobic violence and discrimination. There’s been a major shift in the attitude to it ever since. In the USA, November is the national epilepsy awarness month that’s all about raising awareness and dealing with ignorance or prejudice through education. Balance is crucial. In Queer Eye on Netflix, most makeovers result in tears of disbelief and joy. You don’t need to turn into a sobby sponge to be deserving of compassion and respect. If the makeover isn’t internal as much as external, it won’t make much of a difference. Your strength is, after all, defined by how you deal with your own shortcomings.
Though I don’t own a car, I treat my body like one: it needs gas and it has its limits. So I learned how to make the most of it, expanding potentials and coming to terms with what can’t be changed. Better buy a brand new Trabant than a Porsche with more miles between his tires than a retired porn star. It also means remind myself of those limits only when I once again take a seat in that dreaded lab chair, with a clenched fist, prepared for a swift, passing swipe of pain. And while I put on a brave face, I suddenly catch a glimpse of the nurse’s painfully pink Crocs. I close my eyes and the room fills with a noisy flamboyance of flamingos. Damn.
