Streak Freeze

I check all the boxes for an ideal sucker for Duolingo, the glorious language “learning” app that feeds on my need to achieve all the things. Within an hour of waking each morning, I complete the three daily quests that Duo, the eerily dictatorial cartoon owl, has assigned me. I know exactly how long it’s been since I regained the cognitive ability to complete a lesson because it coincides precisely with how many days are in my Duolingo streak.

So when I was given the option of having an in-hospital procedure that might help alleviate some of my chronic pain—an annoying reminder of all my body’s endured—my immediate instinct was to decline. Not because I was resistant to the treatment itself and not because I had any real safety concerns. No: what worried me most was that I’d break my not-in-the-hospital streak, which is quickly approaching two years.

Despite my misgivings, I booked the treatment, making clear that I might not go through with it, and thus bought myself time to sit with the idea. This is a strategy I use quite frequently because it invariably works really well for me. After a day or two of anxious contemplation, I get distracted by other things and don’t let myself think about whatever it is I know I should do but am nevertheless on the fence about. And then it’s too late to cancel, and my hand is forced. Easy-peasy.

This time, though, the deliberations were lengthier than usual for the simple reason that I really, really didn’t want to sacrifice my streak.

In response to my agonizing one afternoon, my husband pointed out that it’s been almost two years free of hospitalizations, not free of hospital visits; I’ve had plenty of hospital-based treatments, just no overnight stays or trips to the ER. This wasn’t the reassurance he meant it to be but instead had quite the opposite effect. Indeed, my healthy-person imposter syndrome immediately jumped to its illogical conclusion: that there’d been no streak to begin with. While relaxing in a hot bath later that evening, however, I resolved to take the more balanced view and remove this particular concern from my list of excuses to skip the procedure. Maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t conflate medical-related decisions with Duolingo-related obligations.

Then I pushed the whole issue to the back of my mind where it rightfully belonged. By the time it bubbled back up to the surface it was once again too late to cancel, and I was, as always, forced to go through with the treatment. Shocking, I know.

This is how I found myself checking in at the day-surgery unit two Tuesdays ago. My husband had offered to come with me, but, feeling confident in my ability to handle stuff, I told him that there was no need to skip his early-afternoon meetings ’cause I had this and would see him in the post-op area when all was done and I was good to go. If it hadn’t been written all over all the consent forms I signed that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave the premises unless accompanied by a responsible adult who wasn’t an Uber or taxi driver, I probably would’ve insisted that I’d take the streetcar home on my own, too.

Even after I’d gowned up and been seen by a nurse who did a preliminary exam, I was relatively relaxed. I’d brought a book, and this seemed a perfect opportunity to get some reading done while I waited to be brought in—perfect distraction from my growling stomach and parched mouth (I hate that no-food-or-drink-the-morning-of-a-procedure rule, especially when said procedure is scheduled for mid-afternoon). Remarkably, I was still in a state of denial.

Perhaps if I’d made myself face what was happening before I was thrown right into the situation, I’d have had gained the foresight to prepare myself to have a strong emotional reaction to being in a physical space that I associate with some of the worst moments of my life. Perhaps the emotional weight of it wouldn’t have hit me so hard. And yet I didn’t, and it did, and so there I was, lying in pre-op, making small talk with the friendly nurse when he came back to tell me that they were running behind—no real surprise there—and trying to conceal the fact that I was having a panic attack (always the people pleaser, I didn’t want him to think that I was … mad at him, I guess?).

In retrospect, it was 100% predictable that I’d have the response I did. There were, after all, so many triggers all at once, engaging all of my senses. The neon lights, the gross taste you get in your mouth when your belly is empty longer than you’d like. The scratchy blanket, itchy gown, and too-tight elastic holding the surgical cap to my head. The beeping machines and woman in the bed next to me announcing very, very loudly that if she couldn’t have her operation right now she was going to rip the IV from her arm and walk on out. (This tactic worked: they took her in early even though I was supposed to go in before her. The injustice of it all!) The smell of hand sanitizer.

I felt trapped. Like I’d be kept there for months, maybe a year, maybe forever, and lose my autonomy and independence and ability to speak and write and read and sew and volunteer and travel and have meaningful relationships not limited by visiting hours. For a brief moment, I considered ripping the IV out of my arm and vamoosing, and maybe I would have except then my not eating or drinking until 3:00 PM would’ve been in vain, and eff that.

I didn’t leave. I did, however, spend the next few hours running through worst-case scenarios in my head and swearing up and down that I’d never put myself in this position again. The procedure was delayed long enough that my husband arrived to pick me up well before it even began, and yep, I should’ve had him there from the start. His calming presence and reminders that in only a few short hours we’d return to our apartment and have a nice dinner and snuggle on the couch watching a documentary—in other words, that an interminable hospital stay didn’t await me (unless something goes horribly wrong, I thought, as I am apt to do)—got me through until it was my turn. I was brought to an OR and given sedation, and soon it was all over.

We took the streetcar home, together. A microwave meal never tasted so good.

I happened to have an appointment with my neuropsychiatrist the next morning. The timing was excellent since I was still lost in complicated feelings and on the verge of cancelling any and all future medical interventions. Five minutes in, he told me that he’d reviewed the procedure notes and was surprised that I hadn’t had a panic attack given the medical trauma I’ve experienced in that hospital. (This man knows me well.)

“That’s because I kept the panic attack in my head,” I replied.

He nodded and suggested that we make a strategy before whatever procedure comes next because, as he said, there’ll be one at some point, and not taking care of the little stuff could lead to a serious problem much more unpleasant to deal with. Obvious but true.

I’ll admit that he was right, and we’ll tackle the task after I’ve managed to more fully process the events of a few weeks ago. If maintaining good health isn’t incentive enough, I’ll turn to an even greater motivator: maintaining my streak.