you only get one.
I am a fount of health advice.
I can reccommend vitamins and supplements for whatever ails you.
I know therapies and treatments that will cure your ills.
I can soothe and caretake and make sympathetic faces until you are better. Better than you were before you got sick, even.
But this body I possess is a shambles.
I think that I was pretty healthy until I developed some autonomy over my comings and goings; my mother took good care of me (as much as you can of a child who pulls off her toque on her way to school in below zero temperatures and shares drinks with her classmates when the flu is going around).
I was prone to colds for a variety of reasons. I had allergies and asthma. I would twist and pull and strain things in the midst of my normal running around. I even blew out a couple eardrums. But I was okay, really.
Nothing time and Jell-o and ice packs couldn't fix.
When I left home at 18, I responded to my new freedom by becoming reckless with my system: I ran around underdressed in the snow; I stayed up absurdly late every single night; I ate like a bird or like a vacuum, depending on the day (and usually, nothing I should be eating); and I never once went to see a doctor when I felt something coming on.
Mostly because I didn't really get sick that whole year. It was amazing. It turns out that I was invincible.
When I went to university, I was a little more prone to illness and injury, but it was still more of a joke than anything. I managed to do pneumonia, whiplash, several flu bugs, and a couple broken toes during the space of my first year.
I'm a klutz. I trip on things. So be it. And I guess I forgot to turn away a few colds at the door.
It wasn't until my mid-twenties when things actually started to go awry in a way I couldn't laugh off; I started developing weird ailments like labyrinthitis and rapidly-progressing staph infections and lung dysfunctions.
"You have what? Geez. I've never even heard of that."
And doctors were always amazed when I'd try and tell them that I just had a bit of a cold or a sprain, when the reality would be something just a tad worse.
"No, dear, you shattered that."
Hrmph.
It became -- and remains -- a joke amongst my family, my friends, and my co-workers that if someone can get it, I'll get it. Or if someone can injure it, I'll injure it.
If there is a peril to fall prey to, I will soon end up on the ropes.
But it's not so funny anymore.
Now the things that are wrong with me have taken a more serious turn, if only by virtue of age and years of neglect. And I have responded by pretending everything is fine.
It's not.
I used to be okay with going to doctors; now I avoid their offices like funeral homes. I used to be okay with knowing what was wrong with me. It didn't frighten me at all. But now the things that go wrong are not just scrapes and cracks and bugs.
Nothing so funny as breaking three fingers tripping over a chair. Nothing so typically frustrating as a bad bout of bronchitis.
Now there are sometimes things where no things should be. Or something doesn't work that works on almost everyone else. Or something that is wrong mysteriously never goes away. Or something that should happen doesn't.
And I run from it as far as I can in the other direction. I go for one doctor's appointment, then I refuse to go back to do follow-up. I get tests and I want to plug my ears and wail loudly over the results. If I don't hear them, I'm fine, right?
It's not mature. It's not adult at all. But I'm scared. And while being scared is no excuse, I don't really make excuses. I just walk away and let tiny fears fester inside of me while I shrug it off on the outside.
But the fear doesn't stay tiny. Sometimes it gets so big that I crack a little.
Am I scared to die? I don't think so. Am I scared to be sick and feel pain? Well, sure. No one wants that.
The truth is that I am most scared of being ugly or being less of a woman or... alone.
More alone than I am now.
To offer something less than what someone I love would deserve.
My friends and family get angry at me; they remind me that prevention and early treatment of pretty much anything is better than worrying and letting things get out of hand. And I agree. I say the same things to them. In fact, I would make them dinner if I saw they weren't eating or pour a glass of water if they looked thirsty. If they were sick, I'd want them to be well.
But I am paralyzed by the knowledge that everything changes when you know the truth. So I remain still and try to will things to be different. Even if the now is less than satisfactory, it could be worse, couldn't it?
I wish I could work towards the kind of body consciousness that some people have where they feel an acute difference if they're not eating well or that some part of them is ill at ease. I wish I knew what it felt like to be fully rested so the bags under my eyes would disappear and my coffee would mean less to me in the morning. What would my face look like without those circles?
I wish that I liked this body enough to get massages and treatments and therapies -- the kinds of things that people do to feel more "in tune".
I don't.
But I'm angry that I don't feel right. I'm angry that I don't even know what right means anymore.
And I'm so very tired of being angry.
So.
Something needs to change. I need to go get the damn asthma inhaler prescription that I let lapse. I need to get the chip in my tooth fixed. I need to take the vitamins that are lined up on my shelf. I need to use the pretty water bottle that sits on my desk. I need to eat one of the bowlful of gorgeous green apples I bought.
I need to cut the damn caffeine and get some sleep. To dream and rest and wake up without sighing that the alarm interrupted the first hour my eyes fell shut.
I need to go through a whole round of tests without disappearing and changing doctors.
I need to eat normally, instead of waiting until the evening to nourish myself half the time. And then, to desire things that give me energy. To embrace the rituals of preparation and taste that lend me so much joy.
I need to get outside and breathe, to acknowledge my lack of fitness without embarassment and push myself to do more. I need to remember the athlete I was a few years ago and remind her how much she liked the feeling of wind in her face.
I need to let go of all the messages that I carry around that tell me that my body will rob me of happiness. That I am less than beautiful. That I will never really be well. That I should deny myself health because I wasn't perfect to start with or I cannot be fixed. That I am not worthy of any of this because I waited so long to love this fragile frame of mine.
This fragile frame that isn't so fragile at all.
I am strong enough to bear all this fear. So I must be strong enough to let it go, too.
This Thursday, I am going for the first massage of my entire 31 years. It's not a necessary thing; it's an indulgence permitted by a decent health plan at work.
I'm intimidated.
But I am doing it because I am tired of feeling sore and embarassed and shameful and weary. I am doing it because I want to send a message to these bones and joints and muscles and organs -- and, most of all, to the mind that controls them:
I only get one body. I'm going to take it back.
Even if I'm not yet sure what I'm getting.
11:02:46 PM 
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