life, liberty, and the pursuit of not losing my fucking mind
On *not* saying the quiet part out loud.
This is Bite Back, a new-ish newsletter from Tess Koman. I realize it’s incredibly poorly timed with the Fourth (and ongoing national collapse) of it all, but here we are/please know I’m cognizant of that. Anyway!
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I have finally figured out why I’m insufferable. It took 25 years, but I got there. I am insufferable because—wait for it—I have suffered.
OK SORRY. SORRRRRRRY. That was the most annoying (but most poetic, maybe?? yeah??) way I could have possibly phrased it. I promise you were meant to laugh and I don’t really speak that way. But! But!! It’s not not true.
How we got here
I’ve been thinking a lot about this little upswing we’re on over here and how I’ve been (slightly) more willing to acknowledge my mental and physical progress than I usually am. If you’ve known me in any other iteration of my life, you’ll be more familiar with the Dratch-as-Debbie-Downer following:
*Doctors confirm after a terrifying lung biopsy that I am in the clear re: most of the scary things this acute pulmonary hypertension could have been. This is great news.* (Years later, further testing will confirm that it was—wait for it—Crohn’s!)
“Yeah, no, I love to hear that, but I will be at diminished lung capacity forever, right? And you can’t really tell me otherwise? Like, no more deep breaths? OK, cool, yeah, no, just checking. So glad about the rest of that news though!!”
*Four months before my wedding, my lungs are finally strong enough for me to undergo a much-needed bowel resection, ensuring I won’t be gushing intestinal fluid through my former belly button as I walk down the aisle. This is great news and the surgery goes well. I get married looking objectively stunning, perfect, and barely diseased.*
“Cut that real close, huh!! Honestly, we probably shouldn’t have even done it because I’d probably be less disappointed to be erupting intestinal sludge through my wedding dress than I would be anxious that it would start happening again. Also, my hair is garbage from all falling out from medical trauma, so why get married now anyway ha ha!”
*I am cleared to leave the hospital after two more open-abdominal surgeries, three months of traumatizing inpatient care packed to the brim with new and untested treatments for sepsis, bowel perforations, and scarred bowel fistula leaks. I am told to leave, be with my baby, and focus on just…recovering. This is the best fucking news I’ve ever heard.*
“I’M GOING TO START A SUBSTACK ABOUT MY TRAUMA AND EXPOUND ON IT TO THE TUNE OF 2,000 WORDS EVERY WEEK. PEOPLE WILL LOVE THIS DOUBLED-DOWN NEGATIVITY, I JUST KNOW IT.”
What we’re maybe trying to do about it
I’m making the effort to say things out loud without qualifying them. You know how you’re not supposed to chatter your way through deliberate silence? It’s like that! As in, I’m trying declaring to a friend: “I have a job interview this week and I’m excited about it!” rather than muttering admittedly to that same friend “I don’t know how I’m going to get through this job interview I have this week without talking about FMLA and sepsis. Should…should I just get ahead of it? And make a septic shock/unemployment joke? Should I cancel the interview altogether? Because it feels like maybe, given how unhinged I am, I should cancel the interview altogether.”
…….It makes such a big difference. Did you know you can have such productive and uplifting conversations with people you love when you just…tell them what’s going on with you without cushioning it in (valid!!) disaster? I didn’t! Truly! I did not know this.
You can also try to cushion with awareness. I find it helps when I’m talking about things that legitimately still terrify me; things that are based in uncertainty so no one can reason that my anxiety isn’t irrational. (Get ‘em before they get you, ya know?) I hear myself “yeah, but”-ing every time someone brings up my physical progress. I’ll throw an “I’m scared it will all go back to shit” into conversations with doctors who brought me back to life.
I will repeatedly mention that deeply rooted superstitious streak—the one that swirls its way all up in me like a Carvel cake fudgy ribbon. It’s different than qualifying, I swear! It’s a lever to prove I’m always right no matter what, and guess what?
One hour after I started writing about how superstitious I am to say things are going better, I SLAMMED MY FUCKING FINGER IN A FUCKING CAR DOOR and ended up back in the emergency room.
I win!
How we’re eating through it
Further experimenting with sugar (under responsible nutritionist guidance) has brought ice cream back into my life. Ice cream. ICE CREAM! Have you heard of it? It comes in all kinds of flavors, is packed to the brim with sugar no matter what, and is worth all the diarrhea in the entire fucking—WAIT FOR IT—Milky Way.
And while I’ve been trying all kinds of at-home ice cream moments, if I don’t have some kind of peanut butter-chunked-and-cookies-and-cream-densely-double-scooped-into-a-waffle-cone-that-is-FRESH-out-of-the-scoop-shop’s-waffle-cone-maker soon, you, no matter where you are, will hear a barbaric yawp so New Jerseyan you’ll have no question where it came from.
Other newly reintroduced forms of sugar? Wine. :) See below.
My sweet summer sickos. I have more psychiatrist interviews lined up for next week’s issue, so we’ll veer back into “vaguely resourceful” territory instead of whatever the past few weeks have been. In the meantime…Ilu! Long weekend, I guess? Hydrate! Hide! Sleep! ‘Til next week.
Reading Bite Back is the highlight of my week, thank you for writing and sharing!! You make me smile and also think about my own feelings about having Crohn’s and that it is ok to sometimes feel scared, angry etc. (even though I have a mild case compared to you!) Have a great 4th!