Notes From a Critical Illness

Reflections on what a medical crisis is and isn’t

Over one year has passed since I was hospitalized for what turned out to be a freak illness, a pelvic infection that (as far as I know) maintains its mystery of origin to all consulted medical professionals. They hospitalized me for two weeks and lacked basic faculties for around 6 weeks.

At age 29, this was a shocking twist in my narrative, something outside of my previous zone of comprehension. The experience has likely been diluted with passaging time, especially as it is well known that human memories are fairly unreliable. Hopefully, my memory serves me well enough to sustain a reflective list of key takeaways.

Of course, outsiders would be fully justified in observing that my illness was relatively short-term and that I was not on my deathbed. I am not comparing myself to anyone else’s hardships, health-related or otherwise, nor am I equating my experiences with those of anyone else. The following are simply lessons from my experiences, which I suspect may be relatable to some others, as I like to think of myself as a fairly standard non-sociopathic human.

I Didn’t Care About My Past Experiences

It is a powerful cliché of contemporary culture that when faced with death, the highest importance is assigned to “experiences” as opposed to accomplishments or wealth. While during my illness I no longer attached any importance to my accomplishments, I also temporarily lost any attachment to experiences.

Travel has been an important aspect of my life since the onset of young adulthood, something that I valued as rendering me interesting and cultured. In times of good health, if I am reminded of a location in which I had a positive travel experience, I reminisce, feel a little warm inside, recall whatever handsome man had been my holiday romance, whatever region-specific flora, fauna, street snacks, and architecture were now accessible via my Google photos reel.

A few days into my hospital stay, I saw a spot about Northern India on my room’s television. My first thought to myself was “Awww, remember when I went there?” followed immediately by “I do not give a fuck about ever having gone to India.” Previously I would have thought that my mind would be desperate to immerse itself in better times when I could not only use the toilet on my own but could even navigate public transportation in a completely unfamiliar country on my own. Aside from the occasional flashback to being well and walking around the West Village in Manhattan, I had no interest in reliving my previously most treasured memories.

Yes, I turned out not to be on the brink of death, and around two months after my discharge, I went dancing in the West Village. I knew nothing of the trajectory of my recovery, or if I would in fact ever recover.

For much of the first week of my hospital stay, my illness was so mysterious that I received no treatment aside from pain medication. Doctors appeared visibly panicked.

I didn’t really feel afraid and was maybe stunned into equanimity. However, these circumstances led me to have some insight into how I am likely to feel when faced with imminent death; more or less disinterest in the life I had led. The real upshot for me is that these “experiences” in which we in modern Western society are so invested may not actually be viewed as of importance in the end and should be sought after for the sake of doing them at the moment. Maybe I finally, fleetingly, grasped what Eckhart Tolle had been trying to tell me for years.

I Had No Interest in Being Entertained by my Visitors

First, I am profoundly grateful for the friends and family that came to visit me and showed so much support throughout my illness. My mom flew from Colorado to New York City to sit in my hospital room for the full two weeks, paying exorbitant hotel costs and spending all waking hours at my bedside. My friends, roommates, colleagues, and work supervisor came to visit and brought flowers and candy that I could not eat. One close friend in the city came to visit nearly every day, waiting outside my room if I was undergoing an IV insertion or some other unpleasant procedure. Others with whom I was less close or lived far away checked up on me regularly via text messages and phone calls. Several men with whom I had had to cancel first dates messaged me consistently, letting me know they were looking forward to taking me out as soon as I no longer had multiple tubes inserted into my navel. Especially after the fact, these signs of caring and support mean everything to me.

That said, I cannot overstate how little I was interested in anything my friends had to say on these visits. I fully understand why they assumed that I wanted to hear about whatever drama was going on at their workplaces and see photos of people from dating apps with whom they would have drinks later that evening. Normally, I’m highly interested in and entertained by these topics of conversation.

It certainly makes sense that anyone would assume that I would seek distraction and connection to the world outside of my hospital floor, where the lighting was more flattering and activities more variegated than the programming of the six television channels I could access. However, this was not the case.

Maybe I had reached a point of complete self-absorption beyond that of the average critically ill person. However, I will bet that I’m not the only one who has aggressively feigned interest in the anecdotes of hospital visitors or photos of friend’s holiday party sent via WhatsApp.

The upshot of this is certainly not to discourage hospital visitors (note the aforementioned lasting gratitude) but maybe to discourage the need to entertain an ill loved one unless said entertainment is solicited.

I Still Kept Some Vanity

This could be directly related to me being an exceptionally vain asshole or to the daily visits of a young doctor who I found ideally attractive, but I did still care about how I looked. My dear friend and most frequent non-maternal visitor brought me a care package including a facial hair removal tool, mascara, and face wipes. On some days I used all of my strength on these personal maintenance endeavors, which likely went unnoticed because of the distraction of what appeared to be a bird’s nest engulfing my head.

I discouraged any romantic prospects from visiting, not wanting to be seen in that state. The only fantasies or thoughts of the future that I entertained were of somehow encountering my handsome doctor post-release at the Whole Foods at Columbus Circle, which seemed reasonable, as this was a spot that I frequented near the hospital. In this fantasy I would wear a yoga outfit (sports bra only, no shirt), would be much fitter than I had been in my life pre-illness, and would also have immaculate hair and makeup. The fantasy didn’t include any kind of torrid affair but began and ended with him seeing me in this optimal physical state (which I am still yet to attain).

Some of my fondest memories of my hospital stay include sweet nurses remarking on how adorable and beautiful I looked and how my appearance improved throughout my stay. It is interesting how the societal influences instilling the importance of career success, financial resources, and having meaningful experiences quickly fell away, yet attachment to my appearance seemed to remain.

People Had Strange Subsequent Reactions and Assumptions

In a phenomenon referred to by one of my professors as “people not liking the funk,” it was not acceptable, even to someone with whom I had a minor social interaction, that something of this magnitude could happen unprovoked. As Ariel Levy so eloquently recounted in her memoir The Rules Do Not Apply, people don’t want to accept that something devastating could happen to someone without poor choices being made to increase its likelihood. To acknowledge that things happen nonsensical causes is to acknowledge that these things could and may happen to them as well.

It was established early on that I had no STD’s or STI’s (not that there would be any shame in this, I just happened to not have any.) Yet doctors, nurses, friends, and acquaintances consistently implied that all of this must have had something to do with sexual irresponsibility. One close friend even scolded me months later for not “learning my lesson” about diligence with the use of protection, despite having been directly told by a doctor that there was no presenting an explanation for how this illness came to afflict me. When asked how I might prevent this in the future, many doctors responded honestly with “I don’t know”, while a fair amount said something to the effect of “Have only safe sex.” I had a brief glimpse into how gynecological issues, whether they be of the variety that I experienced, infertility, miscarriage, etc. are often assumed to be self-induced, when in fact that is very often not at all the case.

One of the more interesting exchanges with a stranger took place on a flight several weeks after my hospital release. I still could not walk even short distances and had to ask the flight attendant about a wheelchair upon landing. The man sitting next to me, with a shocked expression, asked why someone of my youthful appearance would require this. After a brief explanation, he exclaimed, “But that’s not fair! You’re not overweight! So many overweight people have nothing like that happen!”

Anger toward overweight people seems like a pretty bizarre place to jump to, reflective of societal fat-phobia which is an issue much too large to approach here. I questioned whether, if I was perceived as being at an “unhealthy” weight, this man would say, “Ah, that makes sense, you had it coming, being overweight and all.”

As a frequently awkward conversationalist myself, I fully empathize with not knowing the “right” thing to say and am certain that I have very often said “wrong” things.

The real upshot of these interactions is that people, myself included, have loaded reactions to any news, reflective of their own experiences and biases much more than any relevant commentary on the news being responded to.

Checking My Privilege is an Ongoing Process

As a social work student, I have been turned off by some seemingly ostentatious privilege checking, yet the authentic variety is necessary for humility, empathy, and progress. During and following my illness, I often reflected on how, as horrible as the experience was for me, I had so many advantages making this a manageable hardship.

From having the support of my mom, good insurance provided by my Ivy League graduate program, treatment in a top-notch hospital (I will forever sing the praises of Mount Sinai Columbus Circle), attentive and kind doctors and nurses who I felt really listened to me, a supportive boss and school faculty, the (unearned) privilege is truly astounding. I was so proud of myself for noting this, thinking about how something like this could destroy the livelihood of someone living paycheck to paycheck, without someone to care for their children in their illness, without savings or familial support to pay off medical bills, without reliable insurance, being treated poorly by racially or otherwise biased medical staff, and so many other horrifying considerations.

After patting myself on the back, as if simply thinking about all the injustices faced by others was contributing to achieving justice, I regressed and said something very ignorant. Upon receiving a hospital bill amounting to several thousand dollars for my stay, I told a friend, “My bill so far is nothing!” Just like that, I was back to being an out-of-touch, middle-class American. My friend reminded me, “For most people in the world, paying that bill would be a major hardship.”

The upshot here is that “checking privilege” and fancying oneself “woke” can also be forms of mounting a high horse- one that is easy to be knocked off of.

Any Internal Change was Fleeting

After a traumatic experience has passed, the expectation by many is that some new level of gratitude, acceptance, tolerance, and patience should be attained. All of my experiences heretofore have directly contradicted this.

I now have a much greater appreciation for doctors and especially nurses, maybe have a deeper level of empathy for those facing serious illness, have more knowledge of puss drainage techniques and ideal blood oxygen saturation levels. Yet, I’m essentially the same, am no less neurotic or petty, and have returned to feeling profound nostalgia and continued craving for superficial experiences.

On some level, this realization is disappointing, as humans love narratives and want to find profound and lasting meaning in all experiences, especially those that are financially and emotionally draining. It’s taken time but I think I’m fine with the experience meaning nothing at all, which is perhaps the greatest lesson learned.