What You Can't Tell From Looking at Those of Us With Invisible Illnesses

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This week is invisible illness week.

Admittedly it is not something I think I’ve ever posted/written about, but this year it feels more relevant to me and I’m a little bored lying in the hospital right now, which has got me thinking that I cannot let this opportunity pass by.

In case you’re wondering, an invisible illness is a chronic illness that can’t necessarily be seen by the naked eye and are not apparent on looking at someone. There aren’t obvious plaster casts or tubes or oxygen masks or aides… just seemingly normal people walking/sitting among everyone else.

While this does sound appealing to be able to not look disabled or ill, there are times when this can be even harder than if you looked sick. Sounds crazy, right?! Truth is, it’s simple!

The lack of physical evidence in plain sight makes it much harder for people to comprehend or even for some to acknowledge, which makes for some really challenging and unnecessary situations. 

I could go into masses of stories about times people have been misjudged or mistaken because of an invisible illness, but I won’t. Instead, because it’s Invisible Illness Awareness Week, here’s some food for thought…

Because it’s not staring you in the face doesn’t mean it’s not hidden out of your sight. 

Because the person isn’t a blubbering mess doesn’t mean they’re totally fine.

Because someone doesn’t talk about their illness 24/7 doesn’t mean it’s not as life-consuming or life-limiting as visible illnesses.

Because someone doesn’t use a wheelchair or walker on every single day doesn’t mean they’re lazy or faking it.

Because someone parks in the disabled spot but gets out of the car and walks inside the shops doesn’t mean that they don’t have an illness that makes them sick and unable to walk much further or stand for a limited time. 

Because someone says they can attend events and cancels at the last minute doesn’t mean they are always bailing or uninterested in what is happening.

Because somebody can go for a walk one day doesn’t mean they will be able to get out of bed the next. 

I could go on forever with this list, and that is really sad. Sad that in this day and age we continue to second-guess people and look for their flaws or dishonesty. We see with our eyes before we think with our heads or hearts. We look for the “bad” person or the fraud before we look for the fragility of someone suffering. It is truly disgusting and saddening. 

If I think about my illness and the last few years, for some parts it has been pretty visible, but what has been seen is most definitely not all of it.

I have my power wheelchair which screams disability and I have literally been lying in hospital for five of the last six years — very obvious stuff.

What’s not obvious, though, is the hidden tubes and bits and pieces under my clothes. The central line hidden under my skin, the blood pressure and heart rate readings I get when I’m about to lose consciousness, the multiple medications I take multiple times per day, the carers and nurses that come to help me every day, all of it and so much more which I choose not to go into. All invisible to a person on the street, to you on the Internet, and to everyone unless you know me pretty well or I tell you. 

In today’s society we are still so judgemental which makes having an invisible illness twice as hard. This is not written with the intention of a cry for pity or a woe is me, this is awareness. Awareness for the people with chronic illness and the thousands or millions with invisible illnesses every day, everywhere. 

I have long loved a quote that sums up this dilemma, so I will leave it with you to ponder over:

“Be kind. Always. For everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” 

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When My Son’s Doctors Viewed His Daily Symptoms as Acceptable

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Our 5-year-old son has a number of congenital “anomalies” as his doctors like to call them, from his brain and spine to his heart and intestines. His list of diagnoses can fill a page on the doctor’s printouts. However, the one thing that has troubled him the most is his gastrointestinal (GI) issues: vomiting and constipation.

My son was born with intestinal malrotation and had a Ladd’s procedure to help correct it when he was around 9-months-old. At this point, he was constipated, underweight, not eating enough and vomited readily so a feeding tube was placed. 

Over the next two years, my son regularly vomited during his tube-fed meals. It was his norm. And his doctors agreed. Since his weight and height were proportionate, his vomiting wasn’t affecting his growth. In other words, daily vomiting was acceptable from his doctors’ standpoint. All of them. They didn’t seem concerned with his quality of life. They weren’t concerned with how his vomiting affected his aversion of food and lack of progress with eating. They weren’t concerned with his overall wellness. We, however, were frustrated, exhausted, and frankly, unhappy.

What do you do when all of your medical specialists are OK with something that is acceptable in the medical world but not OK in the wellness world? Since when did they stop coexisting? 

After guidance from a relative, we sought an alternative. I consulted over the phone with a holistic doctor who practices intuitive medicine. After three months and a few consultations with this holistic doctor, our son’s vomiting improved. Over the course of six to 12 months, his vomiting had significantly improved to the point where it happened only a couple of times every few months. When it came time to follow up with his gastroenterologist and other specialists, they didn’t care so much how it improved but that it just improved. That disappointed me. 

Yes, our son has abnormal intestines. It is not uncommon for him to have constipation or vomiting issues. Per the status quo. I don’t like status quo. I wish a lot of doctors didn’t like status quo, either! 

So I say to all you fellow status-quo-protocol parents, it’s OK to look beyond the medical world. It’s OK to look into other ways to help your child. But, most importantly, when you seek other methods, always keep your doctors in the know. You still want everyone to be a part of your child’s team, you’re just adding to the roster!

Lead photo source: Thinkstock Images

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When I Pressure Myself Not to 'Waste' a Bad Day of My Illness

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Sometimes I wake up with pain in my face and forehead like my skull is contracting. The running joke in my family is that an alien life-form in gestating in my brain and I’m experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions. It’ll pass. (Until the day the infant alien bursts forth.) Anyway, I woke up to false alien baby labor this morning.

The best thing for me to do on days like this is to stay in bed and watch some TV. Maybe take a shower or a bath at some point, since water always feels good. But no pressure. Just take it easy. Give my poor head a break because it’s clearly going through something. I don’t do what is best, though, because I am determined. I force myself out of bed. I make to-do lists — multiple lists of things I have to get done today, or else. Never mind that I can barely get through writing the list. I stare into space trying to think of the word for those little sticks with the soft ends that clean your ears… what are those things? I know I know this. What’s the…?

When I look down at my phone it’s been 15 minutes, I’ve written three items, and I have no idea what those stupid cardboard fluffy sticks are called but I know I need to buy some of them. The two other items on my list are “read everything on each syllabus for my classes” and “write every paper due this semester.” Not really, but it might as well be that unnecessarily ambitious.

Going to the store like this is a bad idea. I’ve done it before. I survived. But it’s not a pleasant experience. I am Dory and I can’t remember that important thing. I make a plan in my head: go to toiletries, then grocery, then leave. But I forget it as soon as I’m in amongst the people and noise and choices. So many choices. Why are there four different kinds of sticks with cottony stuff? That’s too many. And my skull starts to constrict in a wave of pain and I don’t care about Q-tips. Ah, Q-tips! They’re called Q-tips. Anyway, I don’t want Q-tips. I don’t want to be in the store. I want to go home and climb into bed. Why am I out of bed anyway? Whose idiotic idea was this?

“Do you need any help?” a shelf stocker asks me, which is unusual because the staff in this store are not particularly helpful generally. But the stocker seems amused by me. That’s when I realize I have been in this aisle for 20 minutes. Twenty minutes looking at Q-tips. So I left the store without buying anything.

My bookbag in the front seat reminds me that I’m supposed to get stuff done today, but it’s not going to happen. I know that now. My determination is broken. So I drive home mad. I’m mad at myself for not being able to pick between four kinds of Q-tips. Or finish a simple to-do list. Or work on an actually important assignment. Or write a blog post about having a chronic illness.

I’m mad at myself for not being able to manage better, even though this is only one day and I’ve gone a couple weeks without wasting an entire day in bed. I’m mad that any day is wasted. I’m trying to make up time here! I have to use every day. I have to finish to-do lists.

But by the time I get into bed, I’m too exhausted and my pillows are too comfy for me to be mad anymore. I’m pretty sure the alien baby has changed positions because now my skull is threatening to split open at my temple. So I can’t think about a paper or write a post or remember to eat today.

Tomorrow I won’t be mad at myself for today. I’ll be a little frustrated by the additional work I have to do. And embarrassed about that whole Q-tip fiasco. But I won’t be mad. Because a bad day is a bad day. I’ve been through bad weeks and bad months and bad years. I came out the other side of a bad decade.

Bad days are days I don’t get back. That’s true and it sucks. Nothing gets done (except parts of this blog post). I don’t see my friends or make new connections. Occasionally I miss deadlines and the type-A side of me dies a thousand deaths in agony. But mostly the world goes ’round and I binge an entire series on Netflix (only actually watching some of the episodes because the light from laptop screens is refracted evil). And right now, in a moment of rational clarity, I know bad days are not my fault. I can’t control them. I avoid my triggers, but they’ll happen anyway. So what’s the point of being mad at me? It’s just mean. I’m trying my best here.

I know I won’t remember this revelation the next time I wake up feeling like my cranium is being squeezed from the outside while stretching on the inside. I’ll worry I’m going to waste a whole day again. I’ll convince myself that everything needs to be done and it has to be done today. So next time, all I have to do is read this post, try not to roll my eyes — which will hurt like hell — and surrender. It’s just one day.

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To the Friend of Someone Who Recently Became Chronically Ill

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Becoming sick is never easy; whether it’s something temporary like a cold or something chronic, it sucks to be sick. When we get sick, friends are usually the ones who keep us going. Bringing over soup or just sending a “get well soon” card can really boost the spirits. But when we don’t “get well soon,” tensions start to form for some of those friendships. Friends can sometimes probe, “Why aren’t you getting better? Aren’t you over that yet? Can’t the doctors just give you something?” Some people are less willing to keep giving their support when the illness doesn’t go away. So I am writing to the friends of anyone who has just become chronically ill. A friend who you met when they were healthy, but maybe isn’t that way anymore.  

When someone you love doesn’t get better, it can be hard, to say the least. Those closest to us aren’t always easily fooled by a quick “I’m fine.” Our closest friends see through this — they see how sick we really are, how much pain it causes us daily and the struggle of it. Sometimes this pushes friends away. Some people for whatever reason remove their support when things get tough without a clear sign it can get better again. It’s hard to see someone you care about go through something like chronic illness.

It may seem easier to “wait it out” and tell yourself that you will go support them once they are well, to assume this is just a blip in the friendship. Sometimes you tell yourself that you should leave them to deal with it, that you don’t want to add to their stress or maybe you just don’t know how to help or even talk about what has happened. To these friends I say that not everyone gets better. Sometimes it’s more than just a cold. Sometimes being ill becomes a reality for daily life. But when you avoid us for whatever reason, we notice. We notice if you just aren’t there in the same way, or sometimes at all, once we get sick. We notice when it started and start to blame ourselves. We worry about what we could have done to chase you away and trudge on through this illness alone without your much-needed support.

It’s hard to go through chronic illness, but it’s even harder without your friends. Nothing is worse than leaving doctor’s offices, consultations and even waking up after surgery with no one to talk to. After going through all these things for the first time, you want someone to talk to. You may feel you don’t know enough about what we are going through to help, but in the beginning you know about as much as we do.

So to the friend of someone who has recently become chronically ill I give the following advice: stay. Chronic and incurable are not the same as terminal. We are still here, living, breathing, trying to cope and have as normal a life as possible. Things aren’t as different now as they seem. Sure your friend’s life has just taken an unexpected turn, but that’s no reason to leave or shy away. If you don’t know how to help, ask. It is always OK to ask what your friend needs, what to do and how to talk about their illness. They are still the same person and you can still talk and laugh like you always do.

Chronic illness isn’t the end of life and its joys, so please don’t let it be the end of friendship.

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What It Feels Like to Come of Age With a Chronic Illness

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If someone had asked my 18-year-old self how I envisioned my life at age 24, I know for certain how I would have answered: I would be a physical therapist, have a stable job in a hospital or clinic and be living with either a long-term boyfriend or husband. I would have a beautiful apartment and maybe a cute dog to round out the whole idealistic picture. I would spend my vacation time traveling and continue to have a close-knit group of friends. At age 18, this “ideal” future seemed entirely obtainable.

Looking back, I truly thought I knew how my life would pan out. However, it turned out that life had very different plans for me. Unbeknownst to my innocent 18-year-old self, my life would be turned inside out and upside down over the course of the next six years. During a pivotal time in my life when I was meant to “come of age” — to transition from a child into an adult, from a girl into a woman, from a state of dependence to one of independence — I was simultaneously going to be dealt the most challenging experience of my life.

Dealing with a serious illness at a young age forces you to grow up fast. There are many times when I wish I had been able to experience my late teens and early 20s as most young people do — as an exciting, fast-paced adventure. I wouldn’t mind having had a much more “carefree” young adulthood.

However, though my experience with coming-of-age with chronic illness was not something I voluntarily chose, it has ultimately been the most transformative process that has occurred thus far in my life. I love the person that it has helped me become — a resilient, powerful woman with an unshakeable sense of self. I love the wonderful people that it has brought into my life — people who I couldn’t imagine being without. Finally, it has also shown me the enormous depth of kindness and compassion people are capable.

I used to think that I was alone, that I was isolated in the fact that I was only 18 (then 19, 20, 21 …) and had been dealt the terrible hand of “chronic illness.” I didn’t think other people my age could possibly be facing challenges the way I was. I was so young. I was supposed to be vibrant and reckless and have an invincible quality. I felt like the loneliest person in the world. 

Then, at age 21, I began to meet others like me, and it felt like a revelation. I now know I am only one of many young people who have come of age with chronic illness. I am just one of countless young adults who has had to transition into adulthood while simultaneously dealing with an unbelievably challenging illness.

When I began to listen to other young adults’ stories, my heart opened immensely. With these incredible people, I felt as though we already had an unspoken bond before we had even really gotten to know each other in depth. I learned through these interactions that I wasn’t alone in terms of the emotions I felt surrounding being a young twentysomething with an illness. We were all struggling to accept the “lost years” of our teens and early 20s and reconcile our “health lives” with the rest of who we considered ourselves to be.

I have come to realize that one of our first common bonds we share is that we all have lots of questions. We all have so many questions about life: Will I ever get better? Will I ever finish college? Go on a date again? Be in a long-term relationship? Get married? Have children? Sometimes it was difficult to even consider these questions, and sometimes when we let the questions start flowing, they start racing through our heads so rapidly that we feel out of control. I have personally found I cannot focus on these questions. I have to let them go. I will live my life, and the answers will appear as I move forward.

A second common theme I have found amongst us young adult with illness: We feel as though we have lived two different lives: the “before-illness life” and the “living-with-illness life.” Perhaps we have come out the other side and are in the “post-illness Life.” This is what I sincerely desire for all of us.

Personally, my “before-illness life” took place from my birth to age 18 and approximately 8 months. This first life was happy and innocent. I had answers to my questions — life seemed orderly and clear.

My “living-with-illness life” began the first time I woke up in my college dorm and felt like my body had been taken over by an unseen force that was intent on destroying me. Goodbye order, goodbye “ideal future.”

Sometimes I have days where I look back at old photographs from the first life. I analyze these pictures intently, like a historian. Photos of me all dressed-up going to homecoming and prom. Images of me running during cross-country and track races, other ones of me looking so happy while on vacation with my family.

For most people, looking at old photos brings back nostalgia. When I look at these, I feel as though I am looking at a person who has died. I mourn her loss. It is still raw and stings like pouring alcohol on an open wound. The poor thing had no idea what was to come. I want to rescue her and save her from her demise. I feel like I didn’t love her and appreciate her enough, and that makes me so incredibly sad.

But then I realize she had to depart in order for my new self to be born. I look back and realize what I learned from her. I think for many of us, the best thing we can do is look back on our first lives for what they were — hopefully happy childhoods and some fun experiences and memories.

Our second lives can be considered a series of lessons that are gradually shaping us into better people. And our third lives — the lives in which we emerge reborn from our health experiences — those are the lives in which we have the power to become whatever we desire. 

A third major issue for those of us forced to come of age with chronic illness is the fact that we have to walk in several different worlds. There is the “health” world, perhaps the high school or college world, the world in which maybe we are lucky enough to be somebody’s boyfriend or girlfriend, the world in which we still have passion for a certain athletic pursuit or hobby and the world in which we are supposed to be young and vibrant and free. How do we walk in all these worlds at once? How do we reconcile the fact that our bodies are struggling and need extra love and care, along with the fact that we want to be “just like everyone else” our age?

I don’t yet have a perfect answer to this question, but I know many of us are asking it. Personally, I walk in several different worlds. There is the health world in which I am immersed not only for the purpose of caring for my body, but also for the purpose of my career. This world can be kind of weird, to be honest, and I can only talk about it with people whom I really trust.

In this world, I eat a healthy diet, take supplements, do different treatments for managing my health, avoid alcohol like the plague and have a strong aversion to staying up late — not exactly habits of your typical 24-year-old. Don’t even get me started on how impossible this makes dating feel! And then there is the world in which I am young and adventurous — the world in which I rock climb, ski, hike and spend time in nature.

Depending on which world I’m in, I may feel fragile, or I may feel strong and powerful. Usually, I feel all at the same time. One of my challenges has been to integrate my disparate worlds. It was awkward at first, but it is slowly starting to look more and more beautiful. My time in these worlds has given me the courage to pursue my dreams and time to think about what I really want out of life. It has allowed me to create a richer and more fulfilling life than I would have had if I had not come of age with a chronic illness.

Coming of age with chronic illness is no joyride. We have challenges that many people our age cannot even begin to imagine. But have no doubt, being a young adult with a chronic illness is an experience that will change you. No matter who you were at the start, you will emerge on the other side as a different person.

For those of you out there going through this, please know that this time in our lives is pivotal. The fact that we have experienced illness now, rather than in middle age or later adulthood, means we can use the valuable lessons being served to us for our advantage. Our lives can be all the richer due to what we have gained in knowledge and wisdom at this young age.

I liken this process we are going through to that by which a caterpillar transforms in to a butterfly. Our “before-illness Lives” were our caterpillar phase. We were happy and carefree.  Our “living-with-illness Lives” are our chrysalis phase. And our “post-illness phase” is our butterfly phase. We will all fly someday. We have to be alone, and in the dark, and be patient in our chrysalis phase to eventually emerge as a new being. This chrysalis phase takes huge amounts of energy and transformation. 

Let us continue moving forward and heal, so that we can share all that we have to offer with the rest of the world when our time comes to emerge and fly.

Follow this journey on Rock On Nutrition.

Lead photo source: Thinkstock Images

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To the Usher at the Theater Who Asked If I Was the 'Sick Girl'

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Dear Miss,

First of all, thank you for being an usher tonight. I’ve always had an admiration for what you do, and for the whole world of the Great White Way. Tonight, I was really excited to see one of my favorite musicals being revived on Broadway. I used to live for this stuff, and after being estranged from the theater scene for a while, I still do love it. however, it’s been hard to get back to that world to after a few “medical detours.”  Physically and emotionally.

I came to the theater with an equal mix of nerves and dread. In my old life, I would have just hustled right to my seat, 20 minutes before show time, devouring every last page of my Playbill, maybe running down to the orchestra to see if I could sneak a look at the musicians, and eagerly hurried back to my seat with elated anticipation as the first booming sounds of the orchestra flooded the building with astounding resonance.

But tonight, like every night I go to see theater now, I felt like I was intruding on a world I didn’t feel quite as at home in. I tentatively walked towards the ticket stand, with equal parts adrenaline and anxiety, as I anticipated explaining my unique medical situation to the house manager, taking in their stupefied look, and keeping my composure as I tried to answer their baffled questions as calmly as I could.

I get it, though — I would be confused, too. It sounds weird that because of all of my surgeries, I can’t sit down. I don’t mind if I don’t have a great view — I can just stay in the back, where I won’t disturb anyone for the many times I’ll be in and out of the bathroom throughout the show. No, I don’t get tired standing, and yes, I’m used to it, and double-yes, I know it’s weird.  It’s not a preference, it’s a necessity. And I know it feels ridiculous that I can’t wait until the end of a song to use a bathroom — I hate it, too, and I certainly don’t want to be a distraction. And the food — I get it.  Nine bottled drinks in my backpack may seem excessive for a two-hour show. As do the six blocks of cheese stuffed in the side-pockets. But no, I can’t wait until the end of the show. I don’t have a stomach and it takes a lot of work and constant calories to keep up my weight — which I’m still trying to gain more of.

I get it, I do. It’s a lot of weird accommodations I’m asking for. Not your usual “I need wheelchair access” or “I can’t handle loud noises” or something like that. And I know I’m asking you for a lot of favors, and then you have to get a manager of the house to approve, or a supervisor, and I really feel bad that you have to do all that for me, in addition to the hundreds of people still waiting to be seated, staring at this skinny little girl trying to manage a backpack twice her size. I try to be as chameleon-like as possible — just tell me where to stand, and I’ll fade into the background, really. Whatever I can get out of the show, I will, although I’ll probably miss half of it in the bathroom. I know in some ways, it’s easier to stay at home, but I really am looking for quality of life here, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life saying, “Well, maybe I should just be thankful I’m alive.” I’m living, but theater is what makes me feel alive.  And I really want to see this show — I’m actually an actress, although you may never guess that from all of my requests right now.

Tonight was a bit complicated, I know. This theater was super-strict about any food or liquid in the building, and I’m sorry, but my body doesn’t make exceptions, even if a theatre has completely legit reasons and great intentions. So there was a little back-and-forth between my needs and the “powers that be” of the theater, and the staff member was very understanding and was really trying her best to work things out. Maybe it’s difficult to understand how rigidly I have to stick to my constant eating, standing and bathroom access. So I went downstairs to the general ladies’ bathroom and just hung out there while the show started. I didn’t know what else to do, and I felt like I was causing more commotion that I wanted. So I just waited there, trying to hear what was going on in the show through the speakers.

I’m not upset about how hard it was for that usher to make these accommodations. I get that it’s hard to appreciate exactly how extreme my crazy situation is. My stomach exploded, but that’s another story — actually, I wrote a musical about it. See? I’m not just a sick girl with a disability, I do theater, too! I belong here!

There is only one thing that made me upset. It’s how I met you. You asked me a question when trying to work things out, which I really do appreciate. You came down, saw me in the bathroom, and before even introducing yourself, said “Are you the sick girl?”

I hate that word. I really do. I immediately snapped back (and I’m sorry if that came across the wrong way, but it struck a nerve) “No, I’m not the sick girl. I have medical circumstances.” You didn’t seem to be bothered by the difference in phrasing, and went on with your well-intentioned attempt to make my necessary accommodations. Eventually, it worked out, and thank you for helping me find a nice place to stand in the back and eat my cheese, while enjoying the show.

But I really hope you heard me when I said “I’m not the sick girl.” Believe it or not, I’m an actress. An actress that has a few extra… props and stage directions, I guess. What I really wanted to tell you is yes, I have crazy medical circumstances. And I hate them. I absolutely hate them and sometimes I want to scream like hell how unfair it is, that I can’t even sit in a cozy velvet theater seat, relax, and just enjoy the show. And more than that — I used to be just like those actors you’re seeing up there now. I used to be so in this world! Auditioning in New York, with an agent and everything. I knew all the latest composers, what the Broadway trends were, the most overdone audition songs to avoid at the time… that was me! I’m not just this skinny thing that should be in bed at a hospital, barricaded from the outside world. I have those moments sometimes, in and out of hospitals, but I’m strong, I’m vital, and I’m an actress, whether I also happen to be a patient or not.

I want to tell you that I still do what I love, but in a different form, and hopefully inspiring people. I may not be up there with my Equity card, but I’m sharing my story through the magic of theater — my addiction since the time I could remember. And maybe one day, I will audition again.

I know right now I look thin as a rail, I’m hunched over, embarrassed, insecure and trying not to feel ashamed that I can’t behave like everyone else and not make a scene wherever I go. But for five years, I’ve been “making scenes” touring theaters, even some just a few streets down, singing, dancing and laughing about all of these medical nonsense.

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Amy performing onstage.

So you can call me whatever you want — weird, high-maintenance, difficult — although I really do appreciate all of the accommodations you are willing to make. But please, do not call me sick. I have medical circumstances. Circumstances that I cope with through the power of theater. Circumstances that I won’t let determine the course of my life. After the show was over, I went back into my life — with those same medical circumstances, as I frantically searched for a bathroom on the way back to my place. Whatever it was, I was going back to my life.  A life that is so much larger than sitting or standing.

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Amy painting in her studio.

So the next time you meet someone that needs special accommodations, please, don’t call them the “sick girl.” Hundreds of people mill in and out of a theater every day. What if we judged all of them with the first label that comes to our minds? What if we judged all the actors on stage with the costume they wore?

Theater’s about opening up our preconceived notions. I hope I was able to do that for you, even though all I said was “I’m not the sick girl.” Maybe one day, you’ll see my show, and meet the person behind the patient.

And I really did enjoy the show, by the way. So thank you. I had a great view.

Wishing you the best,

Amy

Learn about Amy’s artwork, speaking, one-woman musical Gutless & Grateful, mental health advocacy programs for students, find out how to take part in the#LoveMyDetour movement, and learn about her upcoming book at www.amyoes.com.
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