When adulthood finally arrived, I was expecting taxes and existential crises, not RSV and a body that doubles as a meteorologist.
RSV Hits Like a Truck
When I pictured adulthood, I thought it would be all about balancing work and life. Maybe wrestling with taxes if someone ever explained what they even are.
What I didn’t imagine was lying flat in an emergency room bed, post-spinal fusion, gasping for air like I’d just run a marathon underwater. (relevant Hyperbole and a half)
The air clawed at my throat, thick and unyielding. Like I was trying to breathe through a pillow stuffed with waterlogged cotton. Each inhale burned its way down, a fiery path I couldn’t avoid. My ribs strained with the effort, the hospital lights above me softening into a blur as my body fought itself.
“RSV,” the doctor said. Just three little letters, but they hit like a freight train. Isn’t this a virus for daycare kids? What was it doing knocking on my door in my twenties? My body, tired from surgery, didn’t even put up a fight. It just let the virus stroll in, set up camp, and take over. [What is RSV? I’m glad you asked]
Shingles: Not Just For Grandma
As if RSV wasn’t enough, shingles had already staked its claim in the Hall of Unnecessary Life Experiences. It started as a faint, tingling itch on my thigh, like something was crawling just beneath the surface. Within hours, it was a full-blown inferno.
The pain wrapped around my leg, sharp and relentless, like someone dragging live wires across my skin. Scratching was tempting—oh, so tempting—but giving in only made it angrier. The nerves fired off sparks with every touch, a cacophony of pain that refused to be ignored.
You’d think shingles would wait until I hit retirement age, but apparently, it couldn’t resist the allure of ruining my twenties.
TSA: My Personal Roulette Wheel
That’s life for me, though. Taking hits on things unexpectedly, out of my age range. When I travel, I don’t fret over normal things like lost luggage, or getting frisked by the TSA. For most people, TSA is an annoyance. For me, it’s a gamble with my health. My shunt—the tiny device in my spine that keeps me upright—is adjusted by magnets. Yes, magnets.
Which means walking through a metal detector is less about security and more about whether my shunt decides to play along.
I clutch my card as I approach the scanner. “Lumbar peritoneal shunt,” I explain to the bewildered agent, holding out the crumpled piece of paper like a hall pass. The agent squints, their face a blend of confusion and mild panic. [LP Shunts]
It’s not their fault. How do you explain to someone that one rogue electromagnetic wave could throw your body into chaos? I keep my tone light, making jokes about the magnetism of my spine.
It helps—at least until I have to whip out the official letterhead from my neurosurgeon to avoid collapsing in the middle of the airport.
They don’t always believe it, though. It’s just a piece of paper. My body isn’t my choice when it comes to Passenger safety.
On the way home from Chicago visiting family, we happened to miss a flight by minutes. Since we already went through TSA’s security I had been fully scanned. While attempting to find any other flight home my head felt it. The oncoming onslaught. I was imploding. I didn’t know it at the time, but my shunt had been reset from halfway closed to fully open.
I was draining all of my spinal fluid out of my head. Like a leaky gas tank, or a fish tank pulling all of the water out. I became inoperable. It wasn’t until two weeks later I could secure an appointment with my neurosurgeon and find out the reasoning.
The Weather Report: Internal Edition
Most people use weather apps to decide if they’ll need an umbrella. I don’t bother. My neck muscles and joints are better forecasters. When the barometric pressure shifts, my body knows before the sky does. My eyes start pulsating and my head tells me to go down.
The heaviness creeps in first, wrapping around my limbs like a weighted blanket I can’t shrug off. Gravity feels personal, like it’s ganging up on me. It tells me I must lay down despite every intention of mine. Even the smallest movements become monumental tasks. Standing for dishes crushes my arms in a vice. I’d shake my fist at the clouds, but on days like this, I can barely lift my arms.
I know I’m not alone in this. Living with a body that takes its directions from the whims of weather. It’s not always well understood by doctors, either. But it’s a real thing. I’ve felt it.
And because I felt it I take it seriously. When the pressure starts coming in I listen. (A fun blog post about living with misunderstood pain)
Sneezes as Seismic Events
For most people, sneezing is a momentary annoyance. For me, it’s a full-body event. The buildup starts slow, a tickle deep in my nose. I pre-emptively scream “oh-fuck” if I can manage but the demon often beats me to the punch. The release is explosive—air rockets through my head, ricochets up and down the tubing of my shunt. And sets off aftershocks down my arms and legs.
The tendrils slow down time and everything pauses. My eyes lock out, no longer controlled by my own brain. The static inside is palpitating.
The sensation is so jarring, time seems to pause. My body freezes, trying to process the chaos. It’s absurd, almost laughable, but it leaves me reeling every time.
The Everyday Betrayals
It’s not the big stuff that gets me. Not the surgeries, not the diagnoses. It’s the little things—the RSV, the shingles, the sneezes that turn into seismic events. It’s the way my body turns the mundane into a battlefield.
I’d love to say I handle it all with grace, but the truth is, I whine. I curse the universe. I’ve fantasized about chucking my spine out a window, but on bad days, I can’t even make it to the window.
But you adapt. You laugh at the absurdity because, honestly, what else can you do? You make jokes with TSA agents, shake your fist at the weather, and keep going. Because if I let all this stop me, I wouldn’t be here.
I wouldn’t have met my wife. I wouldn’t have said “I do” under the stars. I wouldn’t have discovered just how far I can push myself. Life’s unpredictable, ridiculous, and often infuriating. But it’s mine, and I’m not giving it up without a fight.
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