Sick Days and Magical Thinking

It is truly a blessing when we don't feel our bodies.

Last year I went to the orthopedic clinic to treat an extremely stiff neck. I had to pull an all-nighter at work (very, very rare). I set up shop on my bed and worked for hours hunched over my laptop, and my shoulders and neck simply gave in. At physiotherapy, my therapist cheerily announced that she was my age and drew a Tim Burton-esque stick figure of drooping shoulders and an oversized head. I had to unfurl my shoulders and straighten my posture. In these two years, I've told her about my work, my college life in Chennai, how much I miss keeping the doors and windows open throughout the year, and taught her how to prepare a generic onion-tomato base for Indian gravies.

I am now more conscious about not sitting like Gollum. However, my shoulders never fully recovered. It feels like I've got a rivet stuck in my right shoulder and I can't quite get rid of it.

I am constantly humbled by the limits of my body. 

I am also amazed by how quickly I can put these days behind me when living gets easy and my movement is uninterrupted. I feel like I’m a baby that’s yet to master object permanence. 

I don’t think this is a unique experience in any way. People just want to enjoy life without the potential frailties of their bodies at the forefront of their minds. So… is this different with a chronic health condition? Am I more aware of my body? More conscious of its needs? I can’t speak for everyone but escapism played a huge role in keeping me sane on my worst days. 

I have primary hyperhidrosis, a medical condition characterized by overactive sweat glands. My hands and feet used to drip from the moment I woke up to when I fell asleep. Everything was a potential stimulus, from a sudden loud noise to the texture of certain types of fabric.

I knew I had to forego many things in life out of practicality but my first realization at seven was the most heartbreaking. As I squatted in aramandi in a poorly ventilated room, a pool of sweat was rapidly growing around my feet. My skin was irritated and burning. The soles were black and grimy. Sweat streamed from the fists at my waist. I didn’t have a firm foothold, and I knew I’d slip if I kept on. I was even more mortified that the girls in my class would find out. I willed the ceiling fan above me to swing faster and dry the spot before anyone could notice. What would I even tell them when I wouldn’t get a diagnosis for another decade? That was my first and last Bharatnatyam class and the first of many hobbies, interests, and career choices I would give up on.

From brushing my teeth to flipping through books, hyperhidrosis made everything difficult. And there are just way too many micro-decisions you have to make in a day from the clothes you wore to the company you can safely keep, which if not carefully planned, can potentially derail the entire day. It was an attention-draining metronome that dictated my life and never receded into the background.

Thanks to the internet and social media, there’s more awareness of hyperhidrosis now but 15 years ago, the condition was often misdiagnosed or dismissed as a symptom of anxiety. I once had a doctor deliver a prophecy instead of a diagnosis. “She will continue sweating until all of her wishes are fulfilled.” There were the occasional diagnoses of neurological disorders that led nowhere.

I would be 20 when I found a promising treatment. It would take two more years of trial and error to settle on a regimen that worked for me. 

But until then, I indulged in magical thinking about a future unmarred by excessive sweating. The fantasy did not bother with the logistics of finding a treatment but focused on a life that was not the one I was living back then. I imagined myself cooking, my hands gripping the knife and slicing vegetables and handling the heat of the stove with ease. I imagined learning how to play the piano. I imagined my hands gliding over the keys dexterously. 

Militantly facing reality was pointless when I had no effect on its trajectory. It was not good for my morale to acknowledge how my body was utterly out of control every moment of the day. I do wonder where I would be now if the treatment had not start working when it did, when I felt pushed to the brink. I imagine eventually reaching a place of acceptance and making peace with my body (and constantly struggling to keep said peace, too).

To this day, there are times I feel unfamiliar in my body after a whole life of being isolated and uncomfortable in it.

As much as I carry this grief(?) for all the unrealized opportunities, I am ultimately grateful for the path I took and the support system that I could always count on. I found refuge in the company of books and good people that helped me navigate life. I started writing from the comfort of my room. The papers became damp but I did not have to explain it to anyone. There were swim lessons. There were trips to the mall. There were Friday nights watching Doraemon with my little sister. There were trips to the beach. There were movie nights with my extremely understanding roommate. 

This is by no means an everything-happens-for-a-good-reason narrative, but rather a recognition of the wins that seemed inconsequential and the effort that felt all too disproportionate. This is a recognition of those hard-earned movements and my body that tried its best to propel me from one day to another.