September 14, 2017 § 2 Comments
I lost two whole working days this week. In the early hours of Monday morning I was awoken by the first symptoms of food poisoning, which lasted well into the afternoon. (Don’t eat raw sausage meat, children. There may be dire consequences.)
Today I was also off sick for a rather different ailment, but I found the parallels interesting.
It began as I got into bed last night. A very close friend was going into hospital for a procedure that had some serious risks, and I was more than worried. I was scared. And my elder daughter, who’s 18, was planning to do something today that’s slightly outside of my comfort zone, but perfectly acceptable for her age and stage in life. It’s nothing crazy, I must emphasise. It’s a perfectly ordinary thing, but it freaked me out more than I expected it to; far more than it should have.
And that’s when I switched from worry – a pretty normal state for me – to anxiety. I felt that familiar boulder drop into its spot behind my sternum, the racing heart, the dry mouth, a million dark moths bumping into the inner walls of my stomach.
I barely slept. At almost 1am I was still awake, alternating between sobbing into my pillow and writing Facebook posts to distract myself. I read, I watched silly videos of cute babies, I joined Twitter conversations – cheery, sassy on the outside as tears rolled down my face.
I finally dropped off and woke with a jolt at 4.30am, tired but wired, unable to sleep another wink, the moths still beating their familiar refrain. In this condition, eating isn’t really possible, nor is sleeping. Nor is thinking – certainly not thinking straight. Oh you can overthink, and think yourself down the most dark and twisted pathways, till even the Big Bad Wolf seems like a knight in shining armour, but thinking well enough to work, to function, to do the simplest mundane tasks, seems impossible.
So my day today looked much like my day with food poisoning on Monday. I spent a lot off it on my bed. I napped when I was able to, but not in a restful way. The dishes remained unwashed, the curtains drawn. I treated the food poisoning with fluids, and just allowing it to run its course; I treated the anxiety much the same way. And by 5pm, just as most of the food poisoning had worked its way out of my system on Monday, so had most of the anxiety today. But I had lost another day – a day in which I planned to be very productive.
Tonight I will slowly set my home to rights – control is the flip side of anxiety – and then I will catch up on some work so that I don’t arrive in the office in a state of panic tomorrow. And I’ll probably be fine.
I tell you all of this, because I’m one of the lucky ones. We use the words ‘worry’ and ‘anxiety’ interchangeably, but really, they’re very different. I’m lucky because I only have severe (for me) anxiety attacks like this every now and then. Others life with this every day. I’m lucky because I’m self-employed and can give myself a day off if my slate is not so full, although there have been times when I’ve just had to grit my teeth and push through, even though it makes the day a gruelling obstacle course and I don’t produce much of value. For others, the latter scenario is a daily struggle.
I’m especially lucky because I don’t have to explain myself to an office full of colleagues that sometimes, nothing in particular has triggered my anxiety, but I feel as if I’m choking. I don’t have anyone telling me to stop worrying, or to toughen up, or that anxiety is not a good reason to have a day of sick leave, when I know that it’s every bit as debilitating as waiting for your body to expel a vicious gastric bug.
So I will be fine. I am fine. But there may be people in your life who aren’t. Perhaps they suffer from anxiety, depression, or bipolar disorder, or some other kind of mental illness. We tend to separate mental illnesses from physical illness, the head from the body, but I’m here to remind you that the head is a part of the body. The brain is just one of your organs – and just as susceptible to illnesses, which are just as physical and chemical as any other illness.
It’s time to stop making that distinction, and to treat those with mental illness, whether acute or chronic, with the same compassion you’d spare for those with so-called physical illnesses. That’ll help to remove the stigma, which should never have arisen in the first place, if you think about it logically.
If we can do that, more people might seek help and set themselves back on the way to mental health. And that’s beneficial for all of us, and for society as a whole.
September 10, 2017 Comments Off on The hawker
Sunday afternoon. A blanket on the lawn, a cup of tea and the blue, blue sky above me.
And then, a low voice at the gate – a motherly, head-wrapped woman is summoning me to buy her wares, but aware that I have only a miniscule sum of cash, I politely explain that I have no money and ask her to come back at the end of the month when, perhaps, I might have some money to spend.
She asks if I want to see what she’s selling. No need to buy anything. Just have a look. Her honeyed tones are hard to resist, and I don’t want to appear rude, so I go to the gate and she produces three beautiful wooden bowls, smooth and symmetrical. They are her husband’s handiwork. She tramps from house to house selling them.
She begins to tell me her story. She’s from Zimbabwe and she has run out of days on her visa. She needs to sell the bowls to help fund their trip back home, so they can return to South Africa. They are living in one massive room in the city centre; one massive room crammed with people just like her. No electricity. We just sit in the dark, with some candles. This is the room she will return to when her papers are sorted, because it’s preferable to her life back home.
She asks me to keep her wares till she can get back to retrieve them. Tsotsis stole my friend’s phone yesterday. I must get back before dark, before six o’clock. It’s dangerous in town.
I decline to keep the bowls. It feels too weighty a request to hold a family’s livelihood in my hands. Besides, the next door she knocks on could mean a sale. I tell her it’s four thirty. There’s time to get back before darkness falls. But I cannot keep her bowl.
I can see she understands, but her eyes are defeated. She shuffles off, her shoulders a little more stooped, her bowls tucked into a cloth bag. I pick up my blanket, my mug, and walk into my comfortable home, equally grateful and guilty, and sobered by the encounter, because I know she is but one story in a sea of others.
August 2, 2017 § 3 Comments
I’ve been working on the loveliest job – a grown-up grandchild wants to capture something of her grandparents’ lives while they’re still around to tell their stories, and hired me to ask the questions and compile the answers.
So, on a couple of recent afternoons, I have driven to their retirement village, taken up a seat on their sunny patio, with a view of the most beautiful gardens, and listened to them as they reminisced.
And what a delightful way to round up the working day! I’ve heard tales of derring-do: men who carried wounded battle-mates across the North African desert in World War II, rogue Hungarian taxi drivers, and a car full of nuns that sank into a river with tragic consequences.
But I’ve also heard beautiful stories rooted in the ordinary – dancing in the lounge to favourite tunes on the radio, family singalongs around the piano, bowls of dough set on a warm windowsill to prove. Young lovers park their cars at a meeting spot every day on the way to work. Mothers scold their offspring for wasting food in one moment and gather them into their laps for a spot of comfort. A father surprises a daughter with a new bicycle. People die, babies are born, children grow and move away.
This simple assignment, born out of a granddaughter’s love, has reminded me that the important things in life aren’t things at all. The fabric of life is woven from love, laughter and loss: the rest is just window dressing.
It’s also made me want to repeat the exercise with my own father, stepmother and beloved uncle. I have so many questions; they have so many answers. We take our elderly relatives and pack them away in retirement villages and forget that they were once just like us – young and vital, brimming over with hope and energy. They’ve walked a path we have yet to follow: they have advice for the journey we’d do well to heed.
Finally, it has reminded me of why I love what I do so much – because it’s all about stories. I love to write stories; I love to hear them. Most of all I love the challenge of asking just the right question to find the story buried beneath the apparently mundane surface of someone’s life.
And the best part is that you really don’t have to go far to hear one, because everyone has a story.
Won’t you tell me yours?
July 17, 2017 § 6 Comments
Every time you tell my daughter that her well-argued opinion is incorrect because it’s not on your marking memo, you teach her that her opinion only counts if it conforms.
Every time you tell my daughter she may not wear a legitimate part of her school uniform to be warm, because you believe she won’t look smart enough, you teach her that looks are more important than health or self-care.
Every time you hold my daughter to a standard you are not prepared to uphold yourself, you teach her that hypocrisy is part and parcel of being the stronger one in the power relationship: that there’s no need to lead by example.
Every time you punish the whole class for the misdemeanours of a few, you teach my daughter that justice is an illusion.
Every time you admonish my daughter for not being ‘ladylike’, you reinforce the notion that she will by judged by her gender rather than her contribution to society.
Every time you expect my daughter to do a pile of school work in the holidays, but are quick to point out that you don’t want to do so, you teach her that double standards are permitted if they’re held by those in authority.
Every time you flounce out of the class in frustration at work not done, you teach my daughter that throwing a tantrum and walking away are appropriate ways to deal with conflict.
Every time you decide a test or assignment is ‘not for marks’ because the whole class underperformed, you teach her that results may be manipulated to create a particular image, and that it’s not okay to fail sometimes.
Every time you fail to enforce consequences for serious infringements like plagiarism, you silently condone it.
It’s not just about homework and assessments, or finishing the syllabus. It’s not just about passing and failing.
Every time you do any of these things, a classroom full of impressionable young minds is learning how to lead and be led, how to make one’s way in the world, how things really work.
Every parent knows that children learn far more what their parents do, than from what they say. Someday, dear teacher, your charges will forget how to factorise, and identify the passive voice; how to titrate a solution, or name a cloud formation.
But they won’t forget the way you behaved; the way you made them feel. That’s where the real learning happens.
July 5, 2017 § 3 Comments
I have dealt with a lot of doctors in my time. It’s not that I’ve been particularly ill, but I was married to a doctor for two decades, and I’ve been a health journalist for about the same length of time – although one had nothing to do with the other, coincidentally.
This has given me a unique vantage point, and when I interview doctors for the stories I write, the same things come up over and over again: a kind of wish list that doctors have when it comes to their patients. So here’s a handy how-to, in the interests of fostering good doctor-patient relationships.
First, resist the urge to google your symptoms. A few weeks ago I went to a braai [barbecue] and came home with a bunch of symptoms, feeling decidedly unwell. “I’m a health journalist,” I thought. “I can figure this out.” By the time 1am arrived, I had added anxiety and insomnia to my symptoms, as I’d convinced myself I was going to die from smoke inhalation with a side order of salmonella. It turned out I had a bad flu, twhich morphed into pneumonia. I’m pleased to report that I am still alive, several weeks later.
As the epithet on the mug on my doctor’s desk says: “Don’t confuse your Google search with my medical degree.” Your doctor has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the human body – trust me on this. I’ve seen the books; I know how much doctors need to know to get those two degrees. And then there’s a whole lot of experience on top of that, which adds to their already impressive knowledge. The good ones know what they know, and they also know when they don’t know and it’s time to send you to a specialist. Find yourself a good doctor – there are many out there.
Once your doctor has made a diagnosis, by all means go to a reputable site like mayoclinic.com or webmd.com and read up some more on whatever you have. But don’t google symptoms and expect a sensible diagnosis to pop out. The diagnosis is everything – you can only treat an illness properly when you know what it is.
Second, accept that you may have to wait sometimes. Doctors don’t like running late any more than you do. Believe it or not, they have spouses and families and other commitments just like you do. (And please be considerate – they are also entitled to time off to rest and spend time with their loved ones. Don’t pester them after hours if they’re not on call.)
But they are also aware that they have a duty to be thorough in taking a history and examining you – both of those things are part of the diagnostic process, and help them to decide if further tests are necessary or if they can simply send you away with a prescription.
In fact, you should be wary of the doctor who doesn’t take the time to listen to you and examine you properly, but runs exactly on time. If your doctor runs late it’s probably because they examined the patients before you properly, and gave them the attention their malady deserves. When it’s your turn, you’ll get the same care and attention. If you don’t – find another doctor.
Then, go back to the doctor if you’re not improving. It’s a bit much to expect your doctor to be psychic too. They can’t tell that you aren’t getting better unless you tell them! There are very few conditions with only one option of treatment, and every body is different. Some people respond well to one method of treatment, and some don’t – so go back and say, “This isn’t working,” or “I’m not feeling any better,” or “I’ve noticed that I have this or that side-effect.” Work with your doctor and you’ll get better treatment.
Which brings me to my next point: take the treatment as prescribed. Too many people only take some of the treatment, or do some of what is suggested and then mutter about how useless the doctor is. You’ve asked for their expertise, so use it! Comply fully with the treatment and if it’s not working, then go back to them so they can try a different tack.
Finally, take responsibility for your own health. Partly that means living a healthy lifestyle – eating well, exercising, not smoking, drinking moderately and getting enough sleep. But it also means asking any questions you have – about what is wrong with you, about your treatment, about how you can support the prescribed treatment. Your doctor wants you to be well. You want to be well. If you work with your doctor instead of against them, you’ll have a much better experience overall.
- A postscript: if you find yourself at a social occasion with a doctor, it is not okay to start asking them about your medical conditions. If you want their opinion, make an appointment during consulting hours.
June 7, 2017 § 2 Comments
I remember how I cringed the first time I overheard my one of my teenage daughters and her boyfriend saying “I love you” to each other.
I cringed because I grew up in an era where you didn’t tell a significant other that you loved them until you were sure. Very sure. You had to know that this person was The One before you used the L word. And you could be almost guaranteed that the expression of love would be followed by a proposal.
This idea was so well entrenched that I remember whole story arcs in books and movies where characters agonised about whether or not this was the right time to say, “I love you.” Those three little words weren’t just sprinkled around indiscriminately. The right to say them had to be earned.
In the last year or two, however, I have revised my opinion. Because I don’t know where this idea of holding back came from. Perhaps it’s the fear that the person wouldn’t say it back – or that they would, but only because they felt they should.
And actually, that’s all balderdash. Because the person’s feelings about you are none of your business. How they feel about you shouldn’t change whether or not you love the person – that’s expedience, not love.
Love is a one way street. “I love you” is a straight line of love from my heart to yours. No detours, no hairpin bends, no potholes or speed bumps. Just love, flowing from me to you.
So I think we need to tell people more often that we love them, not less. And I’m not just referring to romantic love – we should be telling everybody! Our family, our friends, the cat, the dog, the hamster – if you love someone, just tell them already, dammit.
And stop feeling uncomfortable about saying it, or having it said to you – what is that about?! I think all of us could do with hearing more often that we are loved; the world in its current state of crisis could certainly do with a whole lot more love.
Because here’s the beautiful thing about love – it’s not depleted by being shared. Give it away, and it grows and overflows.
And why wouldn’t you want a little more of that in your life?
PS. I love you guys.