Why must there be consequences? I arrived at a pool party last Monday with pure intentions.
The plan was to eat ćevapčići and drink Corona with lime, but I just spent half of the time doubled over in the bathroom and the other half indisposed on an Art Deco couch located in the basement.
All attendants noted the severity of my condition. Someone handed me a painkiller. Eventually, I stumbled out of the front door. Dodging the humps of a happy bulldog, I clutched my side as I found the seat of my car, Percocet mingling together with the lint in the pocket of my jeans.
Here we go again.
Sparing the more specific details—my parents told me not to discuss my ailments and so I find it embarrassing to do so—I’ve been dealing with a (technically) chronic health issue for like a decade.
I’ll let anyone reading this guess and speculate because I think that’s a fun thing to do. But it’s not that serious, it’s hereditary, and it’s directly related to whether I’m treating my body well and whether I am listening to what my body is telling me.
And being sick and young is romantic. Staying home and watching the first Harry Potter on VHS—J.K. Rowling is a garbage human for the record—eating Lipton chicken noodle soup and sweating it out on the couch. All you miss out on is some school and maybe a couple games of grounders at the park.
Ailing at 30 fucking sucks because I know my body and I know the consequences of my actions. I know that I need focus on staying hydrated and I can feel my organs begging for the proper care and attention that they deserve. The problem is that my well-being is the first thing I sacrifice to preserve a bumping social life and active participation in the workplace.
But then I had to cancel all my personal plans, and at work we are dead in the middle of an office move and a M.D.O.T.Y.W.O.S. (Massive Decluttering of Twenty Years Worth of Shit—I just made up that acronym to save us time), so basically, I set my whole summer back an entire week because I didn’t want to be proactive about monitoring and managing my health.
And that’s the lesson for this note I am writing at 1 p.m. on August 6. I wrote an editor’s note for The Cord published in March 2018 called “Proactive approach” and it contained the exact same sentiments that I expressed above, so clearly the seven years of being alive since then haven’t taught me much of anything.
But it’s nice to have a reminder, even if it comes in the form of a sharp pain in your kidney.
A reminder that your body is destructible and fragile and very much worth taking care of.
A reminder that people rely on you and unless you want to let them down you must be the version of yourself that doesn’t write off an entire week over a relatively preventable health emergency.
A reminder that self-care isn’t just a buzzword used to sell skin care products but also a method of preserving the integrity and sanctity of the holy vessel that is your body. Or whatever.
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