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cmyk for printIllustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
I used to revere any GP that treated me for a medical condition, even when they overshot with prescriptions or had no answers for a particular issue. I was taught at a young age that respecting people with “authority” was the order of the day.
But that was before COVID-19.
The formula for my wellness has now become more complicated.
Like millions of others, I have Long COVID.
When it comes to this elusive condition, the doctor has become as helpless as the patient.
No, it’s not the doctors’ fault. But even though I lack the qualifications, now I am the doctor.
While waiting on science and Western medicine for cures or relief, life goes on, and many of us who struggle with this condition are forced to use what little energy we have to hold onto hope, while hope is busy taking a beating.
I, like many others, have been forced to figure it out and treat myself as best I can with whatever tools I deem helpful and while that is alarmingly inconvenient, it’s also an indicator of a developing trend moving toward more and more explorative self-care.
Don’t worry. I don’t practice witchcraft. But if I knew that might work, I would dust off my broom right away and type in a search for “cauldrons” on Amazon.
I’m always up for a good challenge, but this one has been as daunting and difficult as they come.
Desperation has taken me down many paths toward treatments I wouldn’t possibly have considered in the past. No need to list them all here. It’s not my intention to be self-righteous or prescriptive.
From what I can understand, the symptoms for Long COVID are many (over 200 listed from various sources) and can differ greatly from person to person, so currently, a blanket treatment is not in the cards. A recent study ruled out the antiviral drug Paxlovid as a potential saviour. No shock there.
So, I do the best I can with the tools I accumulate. Some have even helped a bit, but no single form of treatment has proven to be my panacea.
Silver linings have become my golden ticket to tolerance and the one that shines through is self-compassion. As I connect with what often feels like a broken body, it somehow feels instinctive to talk to myself with kindness; and while not medically substantive, it’s proving to be a useful tool. Like magic, symptoms sometimes soften under this light.
It’s no cure, but I do see it as progress. I certainly know my body better and can find some solace from that internal connection.
I recently read that a marathon winner won the race without her watch, a common tool for runners. Instead, she connected with her body. What a concept.
My marathon is a little different. It’s metaphorical at best but I’m running with it.
I used to have so much difficulty connecting with my body, even after hundreds of yoga classes. But not now.
Long COVID is like a solid Ethernet connection; you’re connected all the time. Even when you don’t want to be. So, I’ve made friends with it, even when it barks back like an angry dog.
A lot can come up when I tune in, but through the haze of symptoms such as severe fatigue and brain fog, there is an emotional lucidity that feels like a bit of a gift, albeit one that’s delivered during a thunderstorm.
This adversity has enabled me to know myself better and one of my biggest lessons has been that self-pity is both unhelpful and potentially damaging. It’s just more fuel on an already formidable fire.
In social situations, I put on a brave face – most people are unaware of my current condition. I hide it well because I’m more terrified of becoming a victim than I am of the continuing symptoms. I even feel guilty showing my wife, but to her great credit, she’s been a champ through all of it. She’s in for the long haul, so to speak, and I adore her for it.
If she can show me that kind of love, I can show it to myself as well.
She has helped me understand that self-compassion begets kindness which begets gratitude which begets acceptance. That said, I hope to “be getting” fully better soon.
When that happens, and it will, I know a better human being will emerge.
It occurs to me that the template for a person’s overall well-being can be compared to the game of chess. Western medicine may be the king, but its abilities are limited. Yes, its authority may be prominent and well-documented, but it can still only do so much.
The king needs the agility and varying talents of his queen, bishops, knights and rooks to be successful.
If we rely solely on our king, we all become pawns.
So, for now, I turn inward to self-compassion, and it gently speaks back:
“It’s not your fault, Paul. It’s not your fault.”
Paul McQuillan lives in Toronto