January 19, 2005

• Mind and Body

  Today, while the rest of the world works, I am sitting, un-showered in a cafe, writing, reading, and sipping tea. I am “sick.”

  Sitting at my cubicle yesterday morning, I was struck by the incredible dullness of my surroundings. The air around me was a dry, cold, life-sucking air; the cubicle shrunk about me, wringing my neck. A mild nausea sent me walking briskly to the restroom. I was unable to focus.

  My eyes, lately incapable of accepting my contacts, looked out at the blur of my colleagues from my glasses, which, due to an insurance policy that allows only one optical prescription refill a year, are several prescriptions old. The pretty faces of my coworkers were reduced to dabs of paled flesh colors by my dated eyewear, which made it easier to tell to them.

  “It looks like the winter flu finally caught up with me,” I said. The true exhaustion about my eyes and the struggle to keep my head up made this declaration believable. I left work around 2pm yesterday, and I called in “sick” today.

  I have never called in sick to my current job before. I am hourly, and I depend on the money. In the past, when my migraines pounded against my eyes and nausea swept over me, I have dutifully gone in. Besides that, I have a lot of work to do–I am typically busy and I am (perhaps overly) concerned with doing a good job. Despite the fact that my job is by no means my dream job, I want my bosses to think well of me, I want to play the game–I want to advance. Until now.

  This January, my delicate health has introduced some uninvited apathy into my work ethic. It feels good to finally give in to it, if only for today.

  The truth be told, while I may not be suffering from the flu, as I told my kind bosses to simplify the situation, my body has been misbehaving lately–in a way that has effected my mental health dramatically. In fact, I am quite certain my reproductive organs are out to destroy me.

  Now, before I delve too far into the tale of my recently rude reproductive bits, it’s important to mention how unlike me it is to write so directly about such personal stuff. I hate to become like an old woman prattling on about her health disorders, but I am starting to see the truth in a “new-age” theory that I would ordinarily scoff at: the events of a woman’s body truly do shape her outlook and mark her time. With my recent health issues that force me to deal with this, I am beginning to notice that the struggles of women’s reproductive health and the mental fatigue these frequent struggles cause is given little consideration in our society. It is either ignored completely, or it is callously acknowledged only when males arrogantly blame any emotional response from a woman on PMS. Our consumer- driven culture encourages us to dismiss the inner workings of the human body, and to focus only on the external appearance, for which you can buy things for. It is my own craving for some sort of discourse on the interplay between a woman’s mind and body that soothed my doubts on writing this. But trust me, being candid about this is hard for me–I’m just as vain as any person, and I hate others to know the disgusting truth of my insides. I much prefer the attractive external package, for which I can buy things. Shallow and pathetically American, yes; but wouldn’t you agree?

  Now that you understand the purpose of this, dear reader, it’s up to you if you’d like to continue reading this mindfully polite account of my vengeful reproductive organs.

  My troubles began about a month ago with a crewel, hideous, and horribly situated, cancerous mole. After conquering that battle by experiencing what I can only describe as genital mutilation, I felt as if I could trust that my body would lay off its pesky tricks for a while. My subsequent tests and check ups revealed that I was safe, and that things should be fine. Finally fully healed from my mole debacle, I was ready to let my guard down, until I noticed that I was faced with a fear almost as traumatic as my brush with cancer; my period is two weeks overdue.

  Usually accustomed to regular (if not too frequent) cycles, I’ve since taken three pregnancy tests. They have all come back negative.

  My hazy, confused mind has reflects on a boss I had during an internship in college. She was a radiant woman, with a great career and a happy marriage. Suddenly, she left the office for a few months, due to an ectopic pregnancy that rendered her infertile and inflicted ungodly amounts of pain unto her. A fertilized egg trapped in my fallopian tubes, an ectopic pregnancy–does this explain my own lack of menstruation, my own inexplicable fatigue, my sudden bouts of nausea, my negative pregnancy tests?

  I am known to pass out from the slightest discomfort, but over the past few weeks, it seems that I struggle to not black out doing most anything. I stand, my vision darkens, I stumble, and I hope to regain my vision before I fall. I stand at the fax machine at work, the teakettle at home, and I black out. Even for me, these past few days have brought more “episodes” than I am used to.

  I know that an ectopic pregnancy is only my apocalyptic mind’s way of coping. In stressful situations, I tend to imagine worst-case scenarios and adopt them as truth to try on for size. It’s a bad habit, but what can I say? I have an overactive imagination. It is also my minds way to prompt me to schedule a doctor’s appointment if conditions don’t improve soon.

  So, am I just a generic, un-pregnant, mild flu-ish “sick?” For now, I have to assume so, since that’s what the preggers tests tell me and an ectopic pregnancy seems too dramatic a possibility to be true. But it’s a good thing, I suppose. First off, my “sick” has provoked me to take a day and 1/2 off from my responsibilities, and just focus on feeling good again (physically and mentally). More importantly, for someone as horrified of pregnancy as me (I have been known to regard fetuses as parasites living off of a host), I was shocked to find myself sad, staring at my pissed-on pregnancy test reading a solitary, pink, and lonely “negative.” It’s good for me to know that, when the time comes, I won’t eat my young after all.

  I recall a time as a teenager, heart pounding as I took a pregnancy test in a disgusting Burger King bathroom while on summer vacation with my family (horrifying, I know). Although I was always overly cautious about protection (almost militant about my use of condoms, pills, and spermacide), my emotional maturity wasn’t fully able to handle the physical possibilities of my sexual activity at age16. The only place I could be alone with my anxiety on this family holiday (and dispose of the evidence easily) was the Burger King bathroom. Trying my best not to touch the germs I believed to be infesting the public space, my heart fluttered as I watched with suspicion the lines of the test form. The negative reading flowed through my body; a sigh of relief followed by the coursing of blood that same day. And no one ever knew.

  At least my recent tests were taken in my own warm, clean apartment, with a loving husband watching the pissy stick read “Negative” with me.

  However unfortunate the bind between a woman’s mind and body can be, at least I can depend on time, experience, and my evolving maturity to see me through it and make each ordeal that passes a bit more bearable. After all, if our bodies are capable of supporting the parasitic events of pregnancy and the trauma of birth, I suppose its best that our minds and bodies are connected so that we can ensure our species survives. But sometimes it would be nice to just be able to forget about it all, and just dwell on maintaing a pleasant exterior.

  I hope you are all feeling healthy and alive today. Thanks for reading.

  Ps

  Never heared of ectopic pregnancy? Visit: http://www.ectopic.org/medical_information/symptoms.asp **

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