It's Okay Not To Be Okay: A Special Tribute to Megan

I have a friend. Well, more than one I think. But this one is special and today I want to honour her.

You see, sometimes it is not all about me. (Usually, actually. But in this blog it tends to be.)

Today, I want to talk about my friend Megan.

Megan like me, suffers from chronic illness. Many of our symptoms are the same, although the causes are somewhat different. Megan suffers from Lyme disease, and more recently has also been diagnosed with gastro paresis.  Reconnecting after many years, it was uncanny to realize how similarly we suffer. But that is not why Megan is so special.

More often than not, intense pain and fatigue make it impossible for her to get out of bed. If she is able, sitting and reading a book translates to a full body workout. Leaving the house is saved only for her very best days or, her very worst meaning a trip to the hospital. She has been the real-life main character in a bad hospital scene way too many times. Hard gurneys, curtained corridors and I.V. drips have been her life’s movie backdrop far too often, especially considering her age. Still in her twenties, health issues should not even be a line in the script, never mind dictating the whole screenplay. 

But that is not why Megan is so special.

After getting a degree, starting a successful career and living on her own, Megan has been forced to move back in with her (very supportive) parents and quit work. Not only is she sick, tired and lonely, but has lost her independence completely. This has been a huge setback for an intelligent and strong woman such as herself. She’s had no choice but to ask for help and take it.

 But that is not why Megan is so special.

Let me switch my focus from the negative to the positive. Megan would want that.

And that is why she is so special.

No matter how many times she throws up, or is the throws of muscle pain, Megan can still light up a room with her smile.

That is why Megan is so special.

When Megan sits alone in her room, what does she do? She posts motivational quotes to the world, and applies them to herself.

That is why Megan is so special.

When the rare occasion presents itself for me to visit her, (the UK is a long way from Winnipeg) it doesn’t matter that she hasn’t the strength to sit up in her hospital bed. She still asks how I am.

That is why Megan is so special.

The miniscule amount of energy she has to spend in a day is focused on her biggest priority: Love. It oozes from her delicate pores and grows with the strength of a tidal wave, washing over everyone she comes in contact with.

That is why Megan is so special.

Determination must be her middle name, since she never gives in; never gives up. It defies all negativity.

That is why Megan is so special.

Megan has not only not lost faith, but gained it along the way.

That is why Megan is so special.

 Megan, so many days I just want to get on a plane and go hold your hand, sit in silence and just blanket you with comfort. At the same time, I would soak in your essence and emulate your spirit. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said to myself, “If Megan can hang on, I can get through this.” Yes, at the risk of sounding clichéd, you are an inspiration; a hero.

Thank you not only for your strength, but also for your honesty. To quote Jesse J: It’s okay not to be okay. I hope you “get” that. I think you do.

 So to whoever is reading this, please honour Megan by recognizing her brutal struggle and her amazing attitude and learn from it. As a tribute to her, hold a hand if needed. And please, if you are also chronically ill, remember Megan. She’d have your back and so would I. That’s two people who already care.

Hang in there peeps. If I’ve learned one thing from Megan it’s this: You are stronger than you think.

Oh and also...

It’s okay not to be okay.

The Tower of London, Hospital Style

I knew it was going to be interesting when I noticed the doctor's scrubs on inside out.
Seriously.
No joke.
Dreading my gastroscopy, endoscope, or whatever you wish to call it when they push a tube the size of a garden hose down your throat, through your stomach, and into your duodenum, the tag on her scrubs waving in the wind was almost enough to make me forget that I was entering a torture chamber.
Almost.
Bubbly is too weak an adjective for this doctor's chipper voice. That is, until, she clued in this was not the first time I had been to the medical equivalent of the Tower of London and knew what was coming.
"Oooh. So you've had this test before."
Yes, yes I have. Twice.
I don't mean to be a whiner but in order to invoke your sympathy, I must paint you a picture.
As I lay there on my side, having had four ineffective injections of sedation which is meant to calm and cause amnesia, a plastic mouth guard is placed gently in my mouth for everyone's protection.
No. That's not true.
It's meant for the protection of the garden hose.
Anyhow.
At this point, the computer crashes and they need to reboot. Twice.
Drool starts to trickle down my face. (Gag. Remember, I hate spit.) I jumped at the chance to have it temporarily removed while they trouble-shooted the situation.
A few minutes later and mouth-guard back in, they were ready to go.
"Just swallow the tube," she said.
"I'm pumping air into you now," she said.
"You're doing great," she said.
My involuntary and violent gagging caused tears to roll down my face. This is when the claustrophobia kicked in. Nice and strong. Gagging on a hard plastic tube took my breath away and panic set in.
"You're doing great," she said, as some angel in the room grabbed my hand. I may or may not have squeezed it white as I clung on for life.
Oh, that's nice. I can feel the tube probing my duodenum. So that's where that is. I've been wondering.
"We'll just take a few more biopsies to be sure we have what we need," she said.
Sure. Take your time ladies. I'll just munch on this tasty tube until this picnic is over.
And then it was. Just like that.
So I'm a suck. A big baby.
Other than a scratchy throat for a couple of days, you'd never know it happened. They didn't leave a mark.
A bit of negative, no wait...positive...no, I mean...not good results were given to me and I was told the biopsies would show more.
As I waited for the inactive, useless, I-can-remember-everything sedation to "wear off" in recovery, the next guy could be heard loudly and obscenely dry-retching as they tried to do the test. No-go. He couldn't do it. They had to send him away and told him to see if his GP wanted him to come back.
Ha! So I'm not such a big wimp after all. Who's the baby now?!
That's terrible. I'm awful. It really was traumatic and I totally feel for the guy. Especially if he has to go back and do it again. Yikes.
What I really want you to take away from this woe-is-me saga is the part buried deep in the story-telling.
That angel that held my hand? That's what got me through.
If you are in the nursing or caregiving field, or if you simply ever have the opportunity to hold someone's hand in distress, don't underestimate how much it means.
I have no face to that hand, because as I began to thank whoever it belonged to, they turned to go as they said "you're welcome." But I will remember it's warm, solid and comforting grasp forever.
To all you angels out there...
Thank you.
Oh.
And.
Turn on the light when putting on your scrubs!