So I had decided that I would no longer blog about the bother that my health and life is. Because. Why give material to those who point and laugh, non? But fuck that. This is just too rich, too cruel, too full of pathos, and Russian literature type stuff to not share. I will only accept Munshi Premchand as competition.
I have been seriously sick since the evening of Feb 3. All was well, or as well as it can be with all my myriad health issues, but just like that around 2 pm I had a coughing fit and then I was struck down by the virus that has steadfastly refused to go since. I lost my voice somewhere around the 5th and it seems lost for good. I am just a hoarse, faint, barely audible version of myself. So I tried to take off from work but I am now in an intense, high-pressure, NDA-signed job that requires all of us employees to be there 24/7 which is kinda awesome, and I love what I do, and I want to give it my best and all that, so I was back on the job before I got better. To be fair, it didn’t seem like I was getting better so I just went to work, you know what I mean? Might as well, I thought. And I steadily got worse. So in desperation sometime around Valentine’s Day I browbeat my physician to put me on stronger meds. He thought it was a bad idea given my history and the amount of pills I anyway take everyday. I thought getting sicker with each day was a worse idea.
I took the pills. I even seemed to get a bit better. Only thing is I got hungry. Like I couldn’t stop eating. You know that feeling you get when you eat more than you usually do, likely a Rajdhani thali would do that to you? I never got that feeling as long as I was on the pill. I consumed more rice than I would in a week, ate three chappatis at one go which is unheard of for me, had cravings which I controlled except for this one Saturday where I snuck out with my colleague and had Cake Fudge at Corner House, then did justice to a breakfast buffet on a Sunday because I could finally eat.
As an aside, you know, it’s a bit tiresome that humour in India is restricted to making fun of people’s appearances. It’s quite terrible. Not all obese people eat tons of food.
Anyway so this happened for four days till the pills ended. And life slowly got back to normal except it didn’t.
The next week I started bloating up. I thought it was usual PMS and ignored it. But on Monday I had become almost spherical. Tuesday I was so sick I was throwing up all over the place, weeping my eyes out because I couldn’t deal with the illness any more, and my feet had swollen so bad I couldn’t wear any footwear. I put up the customary FB pity post and vented and went to work. Only I threw up again at work and the drains got clogged so they had to get a plumber to fix it, and I scared all my poor colleagues because I looked so sick. When I finally drove home that evening, I thought my life couldn’t get any worse.
That was till I woke up the next day and saw my face in the mirror.
My face was completely swollen to nearly thrice its size. And so was the rest of my body. I would have taken pictures and put it up here but with everyone reaching my blog after searching for Bhoomika sex, it seemed cruel to spoil their fun with moon-shaped face and spherical-body selfies. I stood on the weighing scale and realised I had put on 8 kgs in a week, another unheard of accomplishment. I was so tired and ill that I couldn’t even think of going to the doctor again but there was work that I couldn’t miss. And my friend MonT nagged me silly so I went to see my endocrinologist. By then I had googled half a dozen auto immune disorders to see what I had gotten next. But none of the symptoms seemed to match. I assumed it was my thyroid acting up or my insulin resistance that had caused some weirdass complication. The hospital let me see the doctor immediately. The staff were very kind and they could tell something was seriously wrong with me. The doctor prescribed a few tests and said it could be my thyroid. I was reassured. Finally.
But the test results came after an hour and there was nothing wrong with my sugar levels, thyroid, or kidneys.
I finally saw the doctor at around 3 pm. He took a look at the report and said: Nothing is wrong with you.
Doctor, please look at me, I am in pain. I can barely walk. My feet are swollen so badly, I am unable to wear any footwear, I am bulging out of my clothes, how can nothing be wrong?
Yes, it must be your arthritis. It’s not an endocrine problem. I’ve checked everything and all the test results are normal.
That is correct. But what do you think is causing this swelling?
First of all, I don’t think it’s swelling. I think you are just fat.
I am so sick, and I am fat. But look at this swelling, please. It’s more than just fat. I’ve put on 8 kgs in a week.
But I have.
Then you must have eaten oily food and sweets and all those things that you should not eat. Be more strict with your diet. Are you even on a diet? I bet you eat everything you can. I am sure you eat…
At this point, my mom interrupted him to tell him I’ve been on a diet to no avail.
You are not sick. You are just fat. And if you are not convinced, go see your rheumatologist who might tell you if your swelling, which is nothing but body fat, is arthritis related.
I had no energy to fight. I left his hospital meek, worried, stressed.
The next day the swelling seemed to have reduced somewhat. When I weighed myself, I had lost 2 of those 8 kgs. My body had also begun to itch and I had developed rashes. So we rushed to my physician instead of seeing my rheumatologist. He took one look at me and said I had an adverse reaction to the strong medication he had advised me not to take. A diuretic and an anti-histamine brought my weight down by another 3 kgs, stopped the itching, and somewhat controlled the rash. It is possible that all that rice and general binge-type eating of food added around 2 kgs more.
I wonder how many people are thinking that about us sorts who have chronic illnesses and cannot help the way our body becomes. And yes, it’s as shocking to us as it is to normal, healthy people that we are always sick. But because we have to learn to cope, we do. I know given the limitations I work with, I am pretty darned fabulous. But then again there are these dark, under the ocean floor days when you don’t acknowledge that. And at those times, it is this voice I seem to always hear now.
You are not sick. You are just fat. You are not ill. You are just lazy. You are just a bad worker who uses illness as an excuse. You are just a hypochondriac.
She always makes it about her health, you know. She always needs to act…
You are just fat. You are just…
Ah well. Fuck you as they say.
P. S. Yes. I will visit the doctor again once I am better and give him a piece of my mind. Though, he has been good for me.