Evasion

This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com

Last week I was listened to the New York Times’ The Daily podcast titled “A Better Understanding of Long Covid” (May 20, 2022).

My attention zeroed in when Pam Buelluck, a health and science reporter for the NYT, started talking about Samantha, a 34-year-old woman who was initially infected with Covid in October of 2020 and shortly thereafter was diagnosed with long-term Covid. Buelluck reported that Samantha has a bright, fuchsia-colored index card hanging up in her bathroom that lists the nine steps that she needs to complete in order to brush and floss her teeth. Samantha continues to rely on this list 18 months after being initially infected with the virus.

I literally held my breath when I heard this. No way. No way. This is exactly what I needed to do when I was relearning how to do everything all over again. I had to come up with “instructional manuals” – or step-by-step procedures — for everything. Because I had lost my small-motor

coordination, I couldn’t write these steps down on an index card like Samantha. However, I repeated the steps to myself enough times that I had them memorized.

According to the U.S. Government Accountability Office, long-term Covid has potentially impacted up to 23 million Americans. Of course, not all of these people need to rely on index cards to perform basic functions, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a majority of them have been traumatized by the lingering inflammatory effects the virus has had on their brain and body.

This doesn’t tie neatly into my excerpt for this week, other than that hearing these statistics reminds me of the importance of having healthcare professionals, particularly talk therapists, available to support these long-haulers throughout their health journey. You will see below that, unfortunately, I didn’t understand the importance of using talk as a vehicle for healing yet.

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This passage follows my last excerpt. It’s from the chapter titled “The Tether Tightens.” The flashback included here is a repeat of what I included in an earlier post titled “An Opportunity” (October 26, 2021).

“Well,” Dr. Garber said, stroking the stubble on his chin. “There’s something called cycloserine. It’s an antibiotic that historically has been used to treat tuberculosis but recently was written up as an alternative to help alleviate obsessive thinking.”

Why didn’t I consider seeing a talk therapist instead of a psychiatrist, especially when I didn’t want to take another antianxiety medication? And why didn’t the words “antibiotic” and “many doses” make alarm bells sound in my head?

I don’t know.

 No, that’s not totally honest. 

The reality was that, when I first got sick, my parents thought I was depressed because my best friend had moved away and brought me to see this talk therapist named Dr. Burns. Dr. Burns turned out to be a joke. Because I had zero interest in playing with anatomically correct dolls and had difficulty drawing my parents’ bodies (due to poor motor coordination), he concluded that I had been sexually assaulted. In addition to this, another reality was that the idea of talking to someone about my traumatic experiences seemed…well…traumatic. Wasn’t there an easier answer?

As far as taking antibiotics were concerned, there wasn’t as much research back in the early 2000s about the potential negative consequences large doses of them could have on the microbiome and therefore the brain, given the gut-brain axis. Further, I didn’t fully understand yet the extent to which all the full-spectrum antibiotics I had taken as a child had set up my system to be that much more susceptible to platinum poisoning at the age of 11.

So, what did I say in response to Dr. Garber’s suggestion to give cycloserine a try? I said, “Sounds like just what I am looking for!”

 Dr. Garber then wrote out the prescription and handed me that little piece of combustible paper. I went straight to the pharmacy, got myself a massive container of powdered cycloserine, and proceeded to pour massive amounts of antibiotics down my digestive tract the next several months, all in the hope of extracting those obsessive thoughts. Those pernicious thoughts that insisted I was on the verge of getting sick again, just like I had as a child. I was at a point where I was still hopeful and trusted the professionals despite my checkered history with doctors.

At this time, I also directed hope toward my job search. I hoped that I found a job. I hoped that I wasn’t getting too far ahead of myself by applying for jobs in the fall. I knew I wasn’t at my best, but I also knew I wasn’t someone who needed taking care of. I took care of myself. 

So I was thrilled when a job offer came in, a job as a kindergarten teacher in a nearby district. Perfect, I thought. See, no need to worry. It’s all coming together.

There was so much prep to do to get ready for the school year, so I was busy. When I tried to fall asleep at night, a lot of my old anxieties, those that questioned if I was enough, started to surface.

Seriously? I asked my inner critic. You really need to drag me back to the past? It’s time you moved on. It’s time you found new material.

But guess what? My inner critic laughed at me and insisted I recall this awful scene so I remembered the importance of keeping my guard up.

“I know this isn’t something we usually do,” The Doctor says once I’ve sat down. “But since we have the camera, I’d like you to write your name.”  

Please not that. Anything but that. Writing has probably become the most difficult thing of all. I don’t know why. Maybe because there are so many steps to it.

Dr. Snow takes a pen from the pocket of his white coat and a piece of paper from his clipboard and puts them on the table. For a moment I’m more curious than nervous. Was the business card, the one with the name of my disease written on it, attached to that same clipboard? If that’s the case, I don’t want to touch that pen. Or the paper. I don’t want to touch anything that’s touched that clipboard. I don’t want to be a part of any of this. I want Blue Nurse back. Now.

“Megan?” The Doctor pauses. “Megan? Did you hear me?”

I look up, my eyes wide.  

“I’d like you to write your name, right here,” The Doctor bends over and taps the paper.

With this scene painfully fresh in my mind, I was reminded that my inner critic was on to something. That it was right for me to be questioning if I would be enough because the doctors and teachers in my life had pointed out on more than one occasion that I wasn’t enough and that I was a freak.

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Why was I so resistant to talk therapy? And why did I have a preconceived idea that “just talking” wouldn’t solve anything?

We, in the West, have historically treated the body and mind as two separate entities. This is evidenced by the way in which western-trained physicians focus on symptom removal.

Who doesn’t want their uncomfortable symptoms removed, right? Sign me up!

However, chronicity can be an issue if the underlying reasons behind the symptoms aren’t better understood.

In other words, understanding the way in which the mind can accelerate a diseased state or improve a diseased state is critical to lasting well-being (among other things). Yes — our thoughts can actually influence our physical health!