Instagram. I am not immune. Snap that image. Hashtag it. Wait for those "likes" to affirm either photographic ability or witticism. Social media- my personal brand for the world to consume. And that small brand has become intentionally or unintentionally crafted. While not an exclusive rule, I try and keep my medical life out of social media. Keep it vague. Don't freak people out. Don't offend people with the awkward reality of this body. And so my body and my illness has remained largely absent. Small posts with a well modeled mug of tea and the words "sick day" with an appropriate, maybe comical, hashtag.
How do I explain this body in one image. One image that will be smooshed on your ever revolving feed between a picture of someone's baby and another's leftovers? How do I post about a chronic existence in a medium that content predicates being easily replaceable (not that blogs aren't too different). But for one day. If I was to Instagram my life it might look similar to the following.
#WaitingRoom where motivational pictures of cliffs remind you of where you are not.
I once made a calculation. If I took a selfie for every doctor appointment I have had since all this began in high school and printed them, and then stacked these photos they would reach the top of a 2 story house. #theselfielife
"Take everything off to your waist." She instructed. The nurse then proceeded to aggressively cover my body in magical stickers that told them what I already knew- my heart beats to a different drum. #melodramaticEKGs
An apple a day keeps the doctor away?
The yearly eye exam to ensure my medications do not cause visual impairment. #SideEffects
#Fridaycocktails - these mysteries that are the miracles of medicine
Emergency Rooms. Morphine. And the love of a good man.
#Myfirsttime - it took me an hour. I couldn't press it in. But the doctor said this will help my body feel like it was 25 again.
Fatigue. That nebulous bastard. The medication causes it. My symptoms bring it on. My daily life flairs it. And so I am always pleased when I make it 7pm and feel no quilt in going to bed.
I took the bus to the ER. Because nothing says denial like taking a bus to the ER.
When the male physician tells me that I need a therapist-- because internal bleeding can be made up.