Of All the Flowers in the Field
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Have you ever kept a secret so long that the lines between reality and public perception became too blurry to tell apart? I have. So it’s only fair that I adhere to a millennial stereotype by sharing my secret with a couple thousand strangers on the internet.
My secret isn’t a salacious story of lovers and adventure. It’s a subtle type of secret that millions keep to themselves every day because health and wellness battles are often invisible or easier to disguise. My secret is that over the last four months, I’ve been mostly stuck in bed and barely able to eat. I’ve stayed as quiet as possible to keep up a facade about who I’m expected to be. And to not feel… disposable.
Zoom has been my best co-conspirator because video conferencing allows me to show up for meetings with a heating pad behind me and pain shooting up my back as I smile and converse. No one is the wiser when I’m dizzy or counting the minutes until meetings end so I can l return to working from bed. On my best days, I’m able to take my dog for a walk.
What led me to this point is still shrouded in mystery. After countless prescriptions, imaging, and blood tests, I am lying in wait to fully understand why my body has turned against me. Is it covid long-hauler symptoms, bad luck, or a mix of the two?
I was mulling over these questions at a recent appointment for a CT scan that went awry. I kept saying how bad the dye injection into the IV hurt. The response:
That shouldn’t hurt you.
It was followed by more attempts to inject all the dye until it blew. Pain shot throughout my entire arm down to my hand, distracting me from the chaos of the knot growing larger on my arm. By the end, I was advised to go to the emergency room if my arm wasn’t better in a few days.
Once inside the confines of my car, I shut the door and cried until I couldn’t breathe in the parking lot. I’d played another variation of this twisted game before. I was no stranger to this type of pain— not listening to me and believing I didn’t feel the pain felt even more familiar. Tears flowed for the many months and Sundays that had passed with no changes beyond the weather and the sting of unkept promises for better days ahead. Better days should have been here by now.
I have to make beauty of the ashes that have been made of me.
The thought of flowers helped to calm me down. Yellow dandelions swaying in a field to soft winds. Every flower was a free spirit, filled with abundance and color. I believe something speaks to you when you pick a flower. It stands apart with beauty and an unwillingness to blend in with its surroundings. A child might pick that flower and hold it dear for a short time. But once the flower is pulled from its life source and begins to wilt, it’s thrown back on the ground or forgotten. I sometimes wonder if I’m becoming that withering flower. Once loved and held dear for what I could offer the world, but soon to be forgotten.
This wasn’t supposed to be part of my story at 33 years old. But of all the flowers in the field, I’ve been picked for a reason. I have to make beauty of the ashes that have been made of me.
“When you look at a field of dandelions, you can either see a hundred weeds or a hundred wishes.” — Anonymous
These were some of the moments when my ashes have scattered with the breeze on this journey:
When I was told I’m overreacting by a male nurse and hit on by another one in the same night. When a doctor asked me to take my mask down and told me I was too pretty to not have a husband and kids to “make my life better.” The very same doctor that would make a joke about my mother not knowing who my father is when asking about my family medical history. When I left another hospital in worse shape than when I arrived, and when I was trying to figure out what tattoos could cover up the scars left on my arms months later.
I’ll start gathering these ashes now, collecting them to shape a new beginning.
I’m too exhausted to talk about the many ways that gender bias and race play into stories like mine. But if my treatment is what you get with respected medical insurance, I hold everyone in my heart who has to seek treatment under more difficult circumstances. Sharing healthcare horror stories with friends and family is equally tiring (and repetitive) at this point. It feels like a repeat of a bad song. You turn the volume down, but the song stays stuck in your head as you hope for the day your brain can forget the tune.
In the darkest tunnels, I can’t see the beacon of light until words pour out of me. And sometimes, nothing feels real until I write it down. Writing my story allows me to process reality as it unfolds - my favorite gift and my strangest curse. While so many stories segue way into hope, I’m not here to be anyone’s inspiration. I’m here to live my life and tell the truth about it. A truth-teller with no means to an end. Do with it what you may.
But I find peace in knowing that struggles and triumphs are embedded in our ancestry, helping us carry unimaginable burdens. The pain is heavy, but we make it through stronger than before because it’s in our DNA. It will call young women to read stories like mine and become doctors and other leaders in healthcare. That strength may lead me down a similar path to better advocate for my own health and other women who need similar support.
I understand that I’m forever changed now, and that’s okay. Life changes the course of our decisions, and I’ve always been adaptable to the process. For me, this means refusing many things I once agreed to because my priorities are fully shifting to my own health and wellbeing.
But most of all, I’ve had to make a choice. And I’ve decided to choose life, even when it hurts. Even when no one hears me. Even when dying seems easier, I’ll choose life. Because without this life, there is one less truth to make you uncomfortable enough to change for the better. And there would be one less truth to remind that the story you’re reading could have been yours.
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