A month ago, I had one of those big nights you remember forever.
I’ve felt nervous writing my recap blog—I wanted to do it justice—but I realized I’ve worked myself into so much of a tizzy that I haven’t written anything at all now because I’m in a writing paralysis. (Isn’t it fun being perpetually stuck in your own head?)
So now’s the time to share—forgive me if it’s a bit long, but when you get your 15 minutes of fame, you document it thoroughly, even if it’s belatedly.
Last January, you could say I was a bit distraught about Trump’s inauguration. Thankfully, my uneasiness propelled me into action and I spent a lot of nights with insomnia writing letters to senators and representatives on committees about issues that mattered to me—the Affordable Care Act, disability rights (especially pertaining to education), the travel ban…
My friend and I protested the travel ban at Dulles International Airport on January 29
A few weeks later, his staff got in touch with me and asked permission for Senator Kaine to share my story. I fell over myself saying “yes! of course!” because that’s one of the many (many) reasons I’m open about my life. If anything I’ve been through can help someone else, if my story can be shared to help others for a bigger, positive purpose, then yes, share it.
(I also asked his office to send along a lot of my personal feelings about cabinet nominations to which they kindly obliged. I’ll say this until I’m blue in the face: Senator Kaine’s staff is the best.)
On February 9, during Tom Price’s hearing to become the Health & Human Services secretary, Senator Kaine read a selection of the 1,000+ letters sent to him about the ACA and mine was one of them.
I nearly fell off my bed when I watched the video, my hands were shaking watching my senator, a man who was nearly Vice President of the United States, read my words and have them entered into the senate record.
Throughout my life, so many things I have said have been brushed aside and ignored by countless people in various positions of authority—doctors, teachers, school administrators, church leaders, bosses, group leaders in peer projects… For me, validation of my feelings and experiences from individuals I value is particularly significant and in a very real sense, healing.
I don’t know how much more validated I could possibly be: I was being supported by a high ranking government leader, vowing to take my side and fight for the ACA because of my story and stories like it.
Phrases like “hell yeah!” came to mind. (As well as “suck on that!” to all of the people who have doubted me throughout my life.)
I was flying high for the rest of the month, assuming these were my 15 minutes of fame. Then, I got another phone call at the end of February inviting me to be Senator Kaine’s personal guest to the Joint Session of Congress, basically the State of the Union lite.
NO BIG DEAL EXCEPT THAT IT IS (and then my brain short circuited.)
So how do you prepare to attend a Joint Session of Congress?
For me, it involved:
You could say I was a bit nervous…
getting my hair cut
buying a new outfit because I own almost exclusively t-shirts, jeans, yoga pants and a denim jacket
buying makeup to make myself look presentable
spending hours writing, writing, writing because I had to come up with something smart to say
FREAKING out because even though I’d done lobby days with Dysautonomia International, and one of my childhood friends’ father was a congressman, this was so different—
I got to bring my parents to the Senate Russell building on February 28. We arrived in the late afternoon and got to know several of Senator Kaine’s staffers who went over my schedule for the evening.
We talked about how his office works—my family and I got to grill them on what they do, the inner workings of Senator Kaine’s schedules, and everyone was so kind and patient with us. (This says a lot about what they go through on a daily basis—my dad’s questioning is very long, very inquisitive, very thorough.)
What nearly every person said is that constituents’ stories are what drive them to do their jobs. No one I spoke to has a personal agenda or even an axe to grind—they’re doing their jobs to make the country a better place.
I did an interview for a local TV station (I never got to see if they used it, but the reporter and cameraman were awesome), had some snacks (three cheers for free Virginia products—peanuts and Pepsi beverages) and kept trying to think of things to say that would make me sound smart.
Tim Kaine is my new best friend, even if he doesn’t know it
Senator Kaine met with my parents and me for a good half hour—he’s the real deal. He took so much time to ask my parents about how and where they grew up and met, about if they had any other kids (my brother couldn’t come because he had to work, we’ve given him endless grief about this)… and when it came to me, I felt heard.
I explained my journey through Fairfax County Public Schools—I told him how we struggled getting a Section 504. That surprised him, given what a successful school system it is, but we shared some other facts about it, and he really took the information in. I told him about POTS and dysautonomia and he picked up on the blood flow problems of POTS quickly—it was beyond heartening and made me think that he’s heard quite a few medical stories like this before. (I also got to give him a dysautonomia awareness pin which he graciously accepted!)
I’m sharing this not to necessarily convert you all to be Kainiacs (another Tim Kaine nickname we can attribute to John Oliver), but to remind you guys that good members of government exist despite Congress’ terrible approval ratings. Yes, some members are nothing short of disconcerting, but others are fueled by constituent stories and want to stand up and fight. I’ve got some really cool senators for my state–find out if you do, too.
After our meeting, Senator Kaine and I did a tele-town hall, where a software system calls Virginia residents and invites them to join in on a conference call. The Senator gave me the opportunity to again share my story about what the ACA meant to me before he answered people’s questions.
I was nervous and scared but daaang. I did it.
I told everyone how for a long stretch of time in my teenage years, I felt more comfortable in a doctor’s office than I did in a classroom. How I realized early on that it didn’t matter what I wanted to do when I grew up—I needed to choose a career that was stable, lucrative and had good health care benefits, not one that made me happy. I told them how the ACA changed that and gave me hope—it gave me the comfort that I could take extra time in school because I would have my parents’ insurance until I was 26. I could even take time off to work on my health and health only if need be. How it meant I could buy insurance and be my own boss, freelance as a graphic designer, a dream of a job I had in my mind.
I also told them that the GOP calling the ACA into question with rallying cries of “REPEAL!” without a solid, safe replacement had brought all of this crashing down. I’m now terrified that my loved ones and I will lose our insurance and our futures—we all have pre-existing conditions. Will we be OK? Will we ever have health care again?
I told them that I’m an active participant in my health, I follow my doctors’ orders, I’m a big volunteer in my patient community, I don’t take my diagnoses lying down. But for whatever reason, the plans I’ve heard from the opposition party seem to promise that I’m going to be punished for illnesses I did nothing to deserve and have done everything to get rid of but cannot.
I reminded everyone that health crises happen to all of us, and if not us, to someone we love, it’s just the nature of life. Whether it’s a chronic illness, cancer, an accident—everyone needs extra care at some point in their life, and that’s why plans and laws with protection are so important to me.
After the tele-town hall, I got ready to head over to the Capitol for the grand event. When the Senator’s office heard about how much difficulty I have with standing, they arranged for a senate doorkeeper to bring over a wheelchair and assist me from Senator Kaine’s office to the Capitol.
I couldn’t bring my phone into the house chamber, so this is the only real proof I went
This was the first time I’ve ever used a wheelchair (and the first time I’ve ever even considered using a wheelchair.) My parents were the ones insistent on me using it but I felt guilt for taking it at first—at the time I was having a good energy/health day and I felt like I was somehow gaming the system by accepting an accommodation I didn’t at the time desperately need. But when I thought about the standing in security lines, I accepted.
For those of you unfamiliar with Capitol Hill—the congressional office buildings are connected to the Capitol with underground tunnels and and a trolley system. But even with the tunnels and trolley, it’s a ton of walking and standing. That night, the route to get to the House Gallery was longer and more convoluted with at least three metal detector security check points along the way.
I was feeling great after the town hall. Top of the world, having the one of the best and most memorable nights of my life. And I got to continue that feeling by accepting the accommodation of the wheelchair. If I hadn’t, I would have been sick as a dog, panting, tachycardic, sweaty, confused, shaking. (I know my body.)
How appropriate to have that continued realization that accommodations matter at an event where I represented the ACA as a young woman who’d been living nearly her entire life with chronic illness.
After the labyrinth of halls and security checks, I arrived at the house chamber and got to my seat. I was tucked away in a back corner of the room which I thought at first was a terrible place to sit but turned out to be a huge score—I was next to several family members of members of Congress and got to network by sharing a short version of my story and told them about Dysautonomia International. I also sat 10 feet away from Sean Hannity—that was a huge trip for me seeing as my dad exclusively watched Fox News when I was a kid.
Leading up to the speech, it was hard to make out who was who on the floor of the House—from my seat with a few exceptions, everyone looked like the same old white man. (Sorry.) Thankfully, I had a great view of Senators Kirsten Gillibrand and Elizabeth Warren, two of my personal heroes and women I’d love to both see run for president one day.
The speech itself was surreal.
I live for the State of the Union, and even though it was just a Joint Session address, it sure felt State of the Union-y to me.
It was very different to hear President Trump, a new person, a new president, deliver this type of speech–President Obama was the president of my teenage years and young adulthood. It felt foreign to (1) be there in person and (2) witness a president so polar opposite to the one I was so familiar with deliver remarks in his place.
The most challenging part of the night for me, even more so than the physical strain standing up and sitting down repeatedly to clap for respected guests and a couple of issues I agreed with was the deafening applause from the Republican party when Trump brought up repealing the ACA in its entirety because it’s been a disaster, period.
I was seated on the Republican side of the room and getting caught up in their applause was painful. I closed my eyes, willing them not to cry because hearing “repeal of the ACA” leaves my future uncertain, bleak, nerve-racking.
The ACA is far from perfect, but its provisions have given me hope and security:
protection for pre-existing conditions
the ability to stay on my parents’ plan until I’m 26
mental health parity
no lifetime coverage caps
I’m publishing this post after the AHCA was thrown out before a vote. It looks hopeful that the ACA will remain the law of the land for a while, and even if that leaves me feeling a little safer, I still feel the need to advocate for it. Because health insurance is the difference between life and death for millions, my loved ones included.
That’s why this matters.
OK, and just to end this on a lighthearted note–
This is the face you make after you crushed it networking, did multiple interviews, had a great time with your senator, advocated for what matters to you, and feel like you’re on top of the world. NO BIG DEAL.
What I want everyone to get out of my experience is that this all came from writing a letter to my senator. I know that attending a Joint Session of Congress might not be the dream night to other people that it was for me, but it made some waves–I showed up in my local newspapers (and a couple of national ones!) and the issues I advocated for got some light. If there’s something you care about, start writing.
Call your members of congress. It’s scary at first, but it’s not so bad. E-mail them from their websites. Write letters. Fax them online. There are so many services that make these things so easy. If there’s something on your mind (even if it’s contrary to what I’m promoting!), let them know. Be active in your government, just like Schoolhouse Rock taught you.
AND! Please be nice to the staffers! Especially the ones on phone duty!
I can’t march at the Women’s March tomorrow, even though I’m only an hour or so away from Washington D.C.
Not because I don’t want to. No, I desperately want to.
As a little girl, feminism meant my mom was having her Mormon Feminist Book Group over and they were going to laugh and be loud, but if I lurked in the hallway, my mom might see me and they’d have a cookie or mint brownie for me.
When I was eight, I declared that a women’s right to choose was very important to me after seeing the phrase listed on a poster about Al Gore’s campaign promises my brother made for school. My mom laughed and told me to tell that to my dad.
When I was in my early teens, my mom had talks with me about the concepts of modesty and “purity”—about how it wasn’t my responsibility to keep a boy (or even a man) from having “impure” or inappropriate thoughts about me. She protected me from unfair burdens society wanted to put on my small, preteen shoulders.
Anytime my mom took me anywhere, she’d point out women she thought were special or significant. “See, you want be like her when you grow up,” she’d tell me. Occasionally she’d throw in, “she’s gonna be rich,” with a smile.
These types of moments shaped my childhood, my teenage years and my young adulthood with memories of being taken care of, being taught by, and being mentored by strong women I respect, admire and love. I’m proud of this history. This history has taken my definition of feminism from free mint brownies to equality of genders, kindness and respect for everyone.
I would love to march tomorrow because I’m in the process of learning how to grow my activism and advocacy. I’m getting more involved in the democratic process, I’m calling my representative and senators, I’m sending e-mails, I’m signing those petitions.
I want to march because I’m learning more about feminism beyond my suburban white girl feminist context; I’m trying my best to study intersectionality with race, gender, sexuality, etc. while also learning about how feminism and disability intersect for myself. I’m doing my best but it will be a lifelong journey.
I want to march in honor of my favorite teachers who broke through the brain fog and anxieties I had with their patience and compassion. I want to march in honor of the mentors I had at every job I’ve ever held, who have helped me learn to be a better person and better employee. I want to march in honor of the doctors and nurses I have entrusted with my health with–and the study that says female physicians might save more lives.
I want to march because I have been loved, cared for and raised by strong women. (Mostly one woman. Hi, Mom. You reading this?)
I want to march because I am so passionate about protecting young girls and their futures. Interacting with teenagers in some of my volunteer work is one of my greatest joys and the young women I have met suffer through so much but still offer their time and support without a second thought.
I want to march because I want to represent disabled women, particularly those with dysautonomia. I want to march because I want to champion how important the ADA is and how critical it is for the health of our country and our people.
I want to march because I want to be a part of something bigger than myself. And also because their graphic design team is totally on point.
I’m not well enough to march on Saturday though.
My body is too symptomatic to make the trip. I can only stand up for about 15 to 20 minutes right now and can only manage walking a couple of blocks before I need to rest for a while.
My heart will be at the Women’s March in D.C. and at all of the sister marches where I have friends—and in New York City where a lovely couple is marching on my mom’s and my behalf through the #MarchingWithMe program.
My gratitude is with everyone there, showing up in numbers to make a point: that we are stronger together, that we believe that everyone deserves a healthy and happy life just because they exist. I thank those representing disability rights and health care rights from the bottom of my heart.
It means everything.
Artwork by Jennifer Maravillas, “Our Bodies, Our Minds”
School was not easy for me because of my health. I was undiagnosed with dysautonomia growing up, and had several other very diagnosed, very real illnesses happening concurrently with the undiagnosed malfunctioning of my autonomic nervous system. I dealt daily with a digestive system that didn’t like me very much and a cluster of mental illnesses—ADHD, OCD, anxiety and depression. Oh, and I was a teenager. (Mix until blended.)
I missed school frequently. Not because I was lazy or a bad student, but because I could barely function so many days.
I had a difficult workload—honors and AP classes. Difficult extracurriculars—I was on my school’s newspaper and had a leadership role every year I was on staff. It was my passion and it challenged me like nothing else. But I wanted it that way.
My guidance counselor told me to take it easy, that I wouldn’t be sick, that I wouldn’t be stressed if I took an easier course load—but I knew myself better than she did. I knew I would be stressed no matter what, because that’s how chemical imbalances work. I was going to do this my way.
It took me four years to get my Section 504 (another story for another day) but it was the best blessing I’ve ever received—it enabled me to customize my education to best suit my needs. My teachers were given the allowances and rights they needed to help me. They were allowed to give me spare textbooks to keep at home and in my locker, they were allowed to give me an extra day for my papers every now and then, they were allowed to let me work on things a little bit differently, so long as we kept in touch.
Because of my Section 504, we were able to switch my schedule half way through my senior year to half-days to try and promote my health. We were allowed to drop classes that weren’t necessary for graduation that were too much of a hindrance at certain points.
I missed over a month of school my senior year because of illness and disability. My assistant principal told me I may not graduate. But because of the accommodations my teachers made and the plans we made together, I graduated with a 3.7 GPA and as an AP Scholar with Distinction from the CollegeBoard.
My high school graduation, one of the happiest days of my life
I share this story because I am not special and should not be a special case or special story.
My graduation success should be the norm.
Students with disabilities across the country should be granted Section 504s (much sooner than I was, because four years of fighting is absurd) and experience every bit of protection from the Americans with Disabilities Act, as it is a federal civil rights law.
It should not vary by state. It should not vary by county or by school or even by guidance counselor.
The Nominee for Education Secretary should feel these things passionately in their heart and be the strongest proponent for them. The disabled are marginalized members of society and to be disrespected this way is unacceptable.
I’m a rambler when I’m nervous. And when I’m not nervous. When I’m perfectly fine, when I’m happy, when I’m angry, when I’m every emotion, I usually talk.
When someone gives me a question I don’t have a good answer to or don’t want to answer, I still answer. I’ll give them an answer to a related question without addressing the fact that I’m not even answering the thing they inquired about. If I’m slick enough, they won’t even notice.
But maybe now, after this declaration, they will.
Sometimes friends ask me about how I’m doing with POTS—and even though I’m always game to talk about Dysautonomia International and the work they’re doing, or maybe cool new research, or the fact that my arm fell asleep in under 30 seconds last night–I know my friend is kindly asking about my chronic health problem.
And here’s where the real baggage comes in.
chronically wide eyed and vulnerable
When there’s been no progress with POTS, I don’t want to tell them that. I hate that there’s been no changes. I hate that there’s nothing new to report in my health, I hate that sometimes it’s even getting worse, because then I’ll have to explain that yeah, sometimes that just happens, and no, it’s not my fault (even though I occasionally blame myself when I shouldn’t) because I don’t want them to blame me either (even when I know my friends and decent humans would never do that).
I run away from the reality of “chronic”, I run away from the reality of life and I divert their attention.
They ask about POTS, I answer about something else.
Sometimes I answer about the progress I’m making in therapy, how I’m not standing still or regressing. How I’m moving onward, forward; how I’m doing something that they can be proud of—even though the very act of getting through a day with one chronic illness, no less a handful, is something they can be proud of their friend for.
Because the vulnerable side of me feels like if I can’t produce results in one area, I better produce results in the other.
Today is a day where I can see things clearly, and I want to say and reaffirm to myself and to anyone who might struggle like I do at times: please don’t feel like your life has to be strictly results oriented. Making an effort, taking care of yourself, being a kind person matters so much more than producing tangible results in work or in health or in any realm. If you have a chronic illness, leave the results to the doctor. All you’re responsible for is effort, that’s all anyone can ask of you.
I didn’t make any formal resolutions for 2017 on New Year’s Eve, but every year as I get older, I realize how important it is for me to be nicer to myself. I want to treat myself today like I would treat the younger version of myself—protectively and with patience and compassion. I look at my younger self and want to wrap her up and say “it’s going to be OK, just hold on!”
I want to have those same feelings for myself now, and by having those feelings, I think I’ll be able to be more honest with myself and with my friends.
And maybe I’ll get around to answering your questions head on.
The gift giving holidays are rapidly approaching and I’m procrastinating my holiday shopping like nobody’s business. That doesn’t mean I don’t have time to help you guys in your holiday shopping for your loved ones with dysautonomia.
And if nothing here strikes you, check out last year’s guide, because I feel very confident that something will strike you as a good gift.
Shopping reminder: when you use Amazon, shop through smile.amazon.com and select Dysautonomia International as your charity of choice! 6% of your total purchase price will be donated to them at no extra cost to you!
Terry Cloth Robes
Some people feel invigorated and reenergized from a shower. POTSies are not those people.
Bathing can be beyond exhausting, and since you can’t change that fact, you can give the gift of a comfortable calm down in the form of terry cloth robes. POTSies can sit and dry off in warmth and comfort rather than shiver in the cold in makeshift towel coverings.
I got the pictured Lands End robe for Christmas last year and it’s my favorite robe that I’ve ever had.
POTSies live on salt, so it’s no surprise that so many of us are intrigued by the possibilities of Himalayan Salt Lamps being helpful. Allegedly, the lamps produce tons of negative ions which are supposed to help oxygen travel our brains more easily, help us feel more alert and even clean the air we breathe.
According to all of the research I’ve done, there’s no basis for the claims that Himalayan Salt Lamps can create negative ions strong enough to produce any of these benefits. That doesn’t mean it isn’t an awesome looking lamp, and that people on high salt diets won’t appreciate having a giant salt rock as a lamp and decoration. For that reason, I still recommend it as a great gift to give. They come in tons of different shapes and sizes.
Most everyone I know with dysautonomia has a personal pharmacy. Some of us use clear plastic storage boxes, shoe boxes or large trunks if it calls for it. Still, it’s nice to be offered alternatives to our personal pill storage (or even storage options for our other medical supplies, because we got ‘em).
This is the perfect time for a gift buyer to give us the “ooh, pretty!” options we didn’t feel like we could treat ourselves to before.
The Spoon Theory is huge in the chronic illness community—it started as a way for us to explain our limited energy supply in terms of spoons—and has evolved into an identity. The chronically ill are Spoonies, we need more spoons (or energy) in order to get through the day.
A quick way to pay homage to the Spoon Theory for your chronically ill friend is by gifting them a spoon ring—rings made out of old spoons that are great as thumb rings in particular. I’ve had one for about five or six years and have gotten endless compliments on it. Etsy is the best place to find them in my experience—and here are some great ones.
One of the good rules of gift giving is to get someone a gift that they wouldn’t buy themselves. When you’re chronically ill and strapped for cash, you’re not going to spend your limited money buying artwork for your bedroom, no matter how much it improves your morale.
I can’t say what your friend/brother/sister/daughter/son/girlfriend/boyfriend/acquaintance/secretsantaperson will like best in terms of art.
If you’re going with a dysautonomia fighting theme, look for turquoise, ribbons, spoons, zebras if they have EDS. Otherwise, just look for something that looks nice, something that reminds you of the best parts of them.
Give me a room full of POTSies. Half will be shivering and half will be sweating. Temperature control does not exist where dysautonomia is concerned and winter does nothing to help matters.
Even though a lot of POTSies run warm (or even sweaty—myself included), if it gets cold where you live, hats, scarves and gloves are the classic gift for everyone, dysautonomia or not. They’re festive, they’re pretty, it’s hard to go wrong.
Also, a common comorbidity with dysautonomia is Raynaud’s Syndrome which leaves peoples’ feet and hands feeling numb or freezing cold due to poor (or truly just garbage) blood flow. So if your friend is constantly rubbing their hands together complaining that they’re freezing, this is your time to shine as a thoughtful gift giver.
Some people with dysautonomia are bed bound. And even the ones who are not bed bound still tend to spend a lot of time in bed or lying flat on their backs because they’re least symptomatic that way.
All of us who have used laptops are familiar with how quickly they go from computers to searing hot irons of white hot burning pain without proper ventilation when sitting on your legs which is why a lap desk is necessary to use a laptop. They’re also great for setting up pills in your room, doing homework and coloring in coloring books (a perennial favorite of humans everywhere.)
Essential oils are tricky. There are some companies trying to suggest that their blend of juniperberrycitronellaspruceetcetera is going to help me forgive people if I rub it on pulse points and heart. But I do know for a fact that I feel a little calmer when I take a deep breath and inhale peppermint very deeply.
So with that in mind, that I’m not suggesting that grapefruitpeppermintcinnamongingerspice in water will cure dysautonomia, I’ve heard some nice things about diffusers—if nothing else that they make your loved one’s house smell amazing and that’s a nice gift to give.
Plus, I found a diffuser that looks like a WHALE. If that doesn’t excite you, nothing will.
So another thing about aromatherapy. These things (an essential oil rollerball and headache cream) will not make headaches go away. But they help so much and are as important to my routine of treating headaches as ibuprofen and drinking lots of water or consuming caffeine to fight off a headache.
I’ve become a bit of an evangelist about these two products (I don’t get any kickbacks from them, but I’d love to), and while it might seem weird to give as a Christmas gift, I can guarantee you that even though these are things I buy maybe once a year (because yes, they last that long!), I would also love to receive them. They cool your skin on contact and help ease the tension you feel during headaches and migraines. I love them and maybe you should buy a couple for yourself, too.