Even with my eyes closed, the fluorescent lights were bright–too bright. I would’ve tossed and turned, done anything to rid the restlessness, except for that I was exhausted, too tired to move. My body tingled, my muscles twitched, I lay still in the hospital chair. The nurses let me be.
I felt like I hadn’t slept in a year. I mean, I had, but when you wake up more tired than when you went to bed, does that really count as sleeping? Sleep should leave you feeling rested, refreshed; I hadn’t felt that way in a long time.
Eventually, I heard someone call my name, softly.
“Ms. Howells,” they cooed. They sounded a million miles away. I began to blink my eyes open, and found two white coats standing above me.
The ER attending and her resident were tall, slender, looming. Through the fog that swaddled my brain, I questioned whether they were real. The woman in the white coat spoke carefully, saying, “We’re so sorry, but there’s nothing we can do to help you right now. We recommend you follow up with your primary care provider and…”
I tried to follow to the rest of their words, but they were leading me somewhere that I didn’t want to go: more frustration, more disappointment, deeper despair and terror. I tried to keep my composure and nod at all the right times, but it was so hard. I wanted to go home. Not back to my dorm room, but home. I wanted to be anywhere else in the world but that overflow ER room with its needles and saline and doctors who couldn’t tell me what was wrong.
The mouths of the white coats continued to open and close, their voices coming in and out like radio static. I wanted to shut it off. The frequency was piercing.
As the attendee finished her final discharge instructions, her face softened and I watched her mold into a mother. At once, her fierce features relaxed and the secure command she’d worked years to obtain as a woman in medicine fell away before me.
“I have a daughter your age,” she spoke into the space between us. “It must be so tough going through all this in college.”
I was unaware that what she’d say next would anchor me in the approaching medicine-filled months. I didn’t realize that such a brief display of empathy would salvage my tarnished relationship with doctors and remain as proof throughout my diagnosis journey of real goodness amongst all the terribleness in life.
“You’re superwoman,” she continued, implying strength, “and you’re gonna change the world someday.”
Her kindness stunned me, startled me, snapped whatever shabby thread that was barely holding me together. It was like a flash of light, so bright and intense, I had to look away.
With my eyes to the floor, the physicians left and I broke apart in the hospital chair. Having lost the willpower to fight back, I released the tears that were already flowing. They covered my face like wounds, like war paint, like a shield. In my tears, I found my armor. In my vulnerability, I found strength.
…
This past Thursday was the two year anniversary of my POTS diagnosis. The day marked two years of progress and recovery, two years of healing and brokenness, two years of learning to navigate life with a fussy, dysfunctional nervous system. Last year, December 16th felt like a funeral. This year, it felt more like a birthday party, a celebration of strength reborn.
To honor the day, I dressed up as Superwoman. The costume felt significant not only because it links to the impactful encounter I had with an ER doctor, but also because it relates to two of my favorite poems written about disabilities: “Wonder Woman” by Ada Limón and “Going Blind” by Rainer Maria Rilke.
“Wonder Woman” by Ada Limón shares the story of a woman’s experience with chronic, invisible pain. After a discouraging ER visit, the woman spots a girl dressed as a superhero and is reminded of her own, “indestructible” strength:
“Standing at the swell of the muddy Mississippi
“Wonder Woman” by Ada Limón
after the urgent care doctor had just said, Well,
sometimes shit happens, I fell fast and hard
for New Orleans all over again. Pain pills swirled
in the purse along with a spell for later. It’s taken
a while for me to admit, I am in a raging battle
with my body, a spinal column thirty-five degrees
bent, vertigo that comes and goes like a DC Comics
villain nobody can kill. Invisible pain is both
a blessing and a curse. You always look so happy,
said a stranger once as I shifted to my good side
grinning. But that day, alone on the riverbank,
brass blaring from the Steamboat Natchez,
out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl, maybe half my age,
dressed, for no apparent reason, as Wonder Woman.
She strutted by in all her strength and glory, invincible,
eternal, and when I stood to clap (because who wouldn’t have),
she bowed and posed like she knew I needed a myth—
a woman, by a river, indestructible.”
“Going Blind” by Rilke recounts the isolation of illness and how the idiosyncrasies of disability can access a world unreachable to the abled person. In the last line, the poem’s translation suggests that in some ways, having a disability is like having a superpower:
“She sat at tea just like the others. First
I merely had a notion that this guest
Held up her cup not quite like all the rest.
And once she gave a smile. It almost hurt.When they arose at last, with talk and laughter,
And ambled slowly and as chance dictated
Through many rooms, their voices animated,
I saw her seek the noise and follow after,Held in like one who in a little bit
Would have to sing where many people listened;
Her lighted eyes, which spoke of gladness, glistened
With outward luster, as a pond is lit.She followed slowly, and it took much trying,
“Going Blind” by Rainer Maria Rilke
As though some obstacle still barred her stride;
And yet as if she on the farther side
Might not be walking any more, but flying.”
I’m a big fan of the way these poems showcase the inner struggles of illness that often go unseen. I love the way Limón and Rilke find power in debilitating circumstances and see strength in moments of weakness and vulnerability.
It’s taken me a while to uncover strength in my worst memories (and a lot of work with my therapist). For the longest time–two years to be exact–I saw only pain, tears, and terror when I reflected on my lowest moments. I’m learning that strength doesn’t always look how we think it should. Contrary to popular belief, it takes strength to let yourself cry, or to ask for help and receive it. Sometimes, strength can look like weakness.
In full disclosure, the Superwoman shirt was actually supposed to be a Halloween costume. It was to be a costume only I knew the true significance of, but when it arrived late on November 2nd, I had to reassess my plans. Instead of returning it, I figured I’d save it for a day when I needed some strength. As December 16th rolled around, the shirt felt increasingly more relevant.
The day before Halloween, an intern at physical therapy asked me if I was dressing up for Halloween.
“I’m gonna be a superhero,” I said. “Superwoman.”
Despite her mask, I could see her eyes crease into a grin.
“You already are,” she said.
