The first feeling I had as I stared at the confirmation email that landed in my inbox was excitement. I felt exhilarated at the prospect of escaping the gilded cage that illness had created for me. I was excited by the promise of a change of scenery from this gilded cage my home has become. But it also came with trepidation. Why? Because, unfortunately, I’m unable to escape my disabled body. I can’t take a holiday from this illness that controls much of my life. Instead, I have to make room and take them with me. Because wherever I am, the symptoms will be, too. Where I am is irrelevant; pain and all the other symptoms will exist no matter where I am. So how can I feel joy about travelling while I’m drowning in a torrent of pain and besieged by a myriad of other horrible symptoms?
"'I'm unable to escape my disabled body. I can't take a holiday from this illness that controls much of my life. Instead, I have to make room and take them with me." Share on X
None of my days are symptom-free. Every day, I experience crushing waves of pain, weakness, fatigue or dizziness, waves that drag me deep into the abyss. Some days, I experience two or three severe symptoms; on the worst days, I come up against all of them. So, much of every day, I make decisions explicitly designed to avoid physical pain. I spend every day doing everything in my power to prevent triggering any of the symptoms that make my life increasingly oppressive.
"Much of every day, I make decisions explicitly designed to avoid physical pain. I spend every day doing everything in my power to prevent triggering any of the symptoms that make my life increasingly oppressive." Share on XGlimmers that once sparked joy are now pushed into the shade.
So, I decline social invitations, cancel long-awaited plans and wave goodbye to passions and ambitions that once nourished my soul. But by doing so, I’ve paid a hefty toll. As the symptoms play a more prominent role in my life, my world becomes smaller and more isolated. The only company I seem to keep are the symptoms that forever haunt me. I often stare outside, wishing to be part of the world beyond my window. The glimmers that once sparked joy suddenly pushed into the shade, shrouded in darkness that light cannot reach. Because of this, I, like so many others living with a chronic illness, often experience depression, a byproduct of the happy, joyous moments that sickness has stolen from me.
So, saying yes to a marathon visit to bookstores, a trip to my favourite shopping haunt, a night out at the theatre, or a voyage on a cruise ship is a way of reclaiming some of the stolen joy illness snatches away. I do so despite knowing the heavy price to pay for these small snippets of normality: the rigidity and incandescent pain that rages through my legs, the all-consuming fatigue that overwhelms my entire body, and the dizziness and vertigo that refuses to relent, forcing me to lie down gripping at sheets as everything around me spins. I want good days and to feel alive rather than just surviving. So, I would opt to be in pain and feel the full force of my symptoms rather than be depressed.
"I want good days and to feel alive rather than just surviving. So, I would opt to feel pain and feel the full force of my symptoms rather than be depressed." Share on XWhat ifs: to go or not to go?
But as the symptoms became more intense and severe, the anxiety about going at all increased. I didn’t want to go, only to have the cruise ruined by my erratic and unpredictable body. Was it even possible to postpone until I felt stronger and better prepared? Or at least until the symptoms were not so out of control and were no longer making my life a living nightmare.
For me, a cure or getting better is a wish only a Fairy Godmother could grant. But my life is no fairytale. It might not even be a flare, but the start of my symptoms worsening again. Right now, it might be the best it gets. Whatever the case, I cannot put my life or plans on hold, however much I would like to.
My mind constantly raced with thoughts of what if—catastrophic thoughts of what would happen if I did go and thoughts of what if I didn’t. But ‘what’ and ‘if’ are as nonthreatening and insipid as two words can be. But together, side-by-side, they have the power to haunt you with anxiety or regrets. As much as I feared going, I also feared that I would always regret it if I didn’t go. As unwell and anxious as I felt, what if I had gone would forever haunt me.
My most treasured memories were not pain or symptom-free
But I did it. After a whole lot of tears, anxiety attacks, as well as pep talks and words of encouragement, I did it. Despite feeling weak, defeated and broken by both my physical symptoms and mental health, I amazed myself by achieving what I thought was unthinkable – stepping on board, passport in hand, ready to cruise.
Reflecting on this cruise and those preceding it made me realise something. Some of the best experiences and my happiest memories were not pain— or symptom-free.
".Some of the best experiences and my happiest memories were not pain— or symptom-free." Share on XThe pain and other symptoms, as severe as they were, are not what I remember most from the trips I’ve loved while cruising. What I remember most is being in awe of the majestic scenery as I stood in the fjords of Norway. I look back now on not the amount of pain I was in but standing on a ferry, witnessing the beauty and quaintness of Portofino as it came into view. Only the joy and excitement of seeing a pod of dolphins as they jumped alongside the ship remain, not the days spent feeling sick in the cabin. What I remember is not the crushing fatigue but walking the pretty streets of Sorrento. I dwell on not the nights spent in the cabin in pain but the lovely, joyful memories of nights eating fantastic food and sipping delicious cocktails.
Symptoms lingered, but joy lingered, too.
I look at pictures of myself while travelling, and I’m glowing—beaming in a way I haven’t seen myself in a long time. For the first time in a long time, it felt like I was living and not just existing. Illness and its vast array of symptoms have long ago created a gilded cage, and for me, books were its key. Reading allows me to escape the cage and experience worlds and places, both real and imagined. But as I stood on the balcony, watching the glistening blue waves of the ocean, my world no longer felt small and secular. My world suddenly expanded, and I was a part of it, experiencing it for myself instead of observing it from a tower, like Rapunzel or reading about it from a book.
"'But as I stood on the balcony, watching the glistening blue waves of the ocean, my world no longer felt small and secular. My world suddenly expanded, and I was a part of it, experiencing it for myself." Share on X
But all good things must come to an end. But, for each excursion and every accomplishment came a physical cost. I swallowed the maximum dose of painkillers while crossing my fingers that it would delay the inevitable assault of pain. I diligently took the correct dose of my other pills and hoped they would ease the nausea and dizziness advancing toward me. But, living with a chronic illness, I often have to prepare to worsen my symptoms for a slice of normality. I must pay the price to take part in everyday things everybody else takes for granted. But even sometime later, symptoms lingered, pushing my body into a debilitating flare. But joy and exhilaration lingered, too – almost making the pain worth it.
