A Fragmented Life

Reflections on Fragility, Resilience, and Invisible Struggles

In the past ten days, I've been spending my time in bed with my foot raised, reflecting on how a minor bump to my foot led to a midfoot sprain. Luckily, the swelling has gone down significantly, and now, I just feel occasional twinges of the pain that first hit me. What's caught my interest recently is that this injury occurred shortly after a conversation about living a fragmented life.

by Olivia Prendergast

In the final week of October, I spent my days in a small town in Connecticut, surrounded by trees adorned with vivid orange, red, and brown leaves. The air carried a subtle hint of the approaching winter, but most of my time was dedicated to enjoying the natural beauty.

On a particular day, I hadn't planned to go out, let alone visit a charming Japanese restaurant known for its soups, hibachi, and sushi. However, a brief chat with someone I considered a family friend led us to set aside an hour to catch up.

During our lunch, we discussed a range of topics, from life and love to the challenges of the modern world and our hopes for the future. Both of us recognized the importance of checking in on each other's mental well-being, but only after we gently broached the topic of health.

I had heard bits of their health story from mutual acquaintances, but I was careful not to intrude on personal matters. Health is a deeply private subject, and having faced minor health challenges in my own past, I understood that the direction of our conversation could vary greatly based on the questions I asked and how I approached the topic. So, I gently probed, always keeping in mind the importance of giving them the space to share. My intention was to approach this discussion as a friend, not as a therapist, counselor, or interrogator, but simply as someone who cared.

Initially, I had no intention of the conversation delving as deeply as it did. However, it became evident that a certain level of trust and intimacy had developed throughout our conversation because, within moments, the atmosphere at the table had shifted.

What had started as a casual and lighthearted exchange transformed into a profound revelation. They confided in me that, despite the physical setbacks of their health, the emotional and mental toll was far more significant. They described the internal turmoil that came with living with a health issue intertwined with their genetic makeup. This is where the concept of living a fragmented life came into play. 

Although the choice of words might appear somewhat harsh, I believe they used it because it carries immense weight. A fragment represents a part that's incomplete, and to view one's life as fragmented by their health can be seen from various angles. It can be seen as an ongoing struggle, a battle for normalcy, or even a journey marked by resilience.

For them, it unfolded as a struggle to achieve a sense of normalcy in their life. They candidly expressed their frustrations, describing the difficulty of making others truly comprehend their unique situation. They recognized that genuine understanding could only stem from those who had walked a similar path and  went on to convey the sense of isolation and exclusion they often experienced when they opened up about their health. Instead of receiving the empathy they longed for, they often found themselves bombarded with well-meaning but unsolicited advice. 

It was a poignant moment because, as they spoke, I could see reflections of my younger self in their words. I'm typically open about many aspects of my personal life, but I tend to keep my private struggles, such as my health, shielded from public view. While I've faced minor health issues in the past, one particular challenge has been a constant companion for the past three years: my ongoing battle with consistently low oxygen levels. It's something I rarely share with others, and at times, I even avoid acknowledging it within myself.

At 22, my oxygen levels plummeted from a healthy 100% to 60%. Over the past two years, they have hovered in the range of 75-80%. It might not be common knowledge, but typical oxygen levels in the blood should ideally range between 95-100%. Plummeting to 60% is a severe and alarming drop, and the human body, resilient as it is, struggles significantly at such levels.

With oxygen saturation at 60%, the body is deprived of crucial oxygen, leading to a host of severe symptoms and potential complications. Shallow and rapid breathing becomes the body's attempt to compensate for the lack of oxygen, resulting in dizziness, confusion, and a rapid heartbeat. Organs, especially the brain and heart, receive insufficient oxygen, impairing their proper functioning.

It took me about a year and a half of enduring countless challenges to raise my oxygen levels to 80%. While I've settled at this level, it impacts my daily life, albeit not as frequently or intensely. On most days, I feel like I'm functioning at full capacity, but there have been instances where something as minor as being in a dusty room or experiencing an unexpected change in weather triggers fatigue, shortness of breath, and impaired cognitive function. Yet, similar to the person I had shared my conversation with, the most challenging aspect is the silent battle of invisible illnesses.

To an outsider, I might seem perfectly healthy, but beneath the surface, my body is engaged in an unyielding battle. For those unaware of my complications, the difficulties I face are often misunderstood, my inactivity dismissed as laziness, lack of motivation, or even indifference. This lack of understanding adds an additional layer of struggle, making the silent war within even more arduous.

Both for this person and me, we discussed how our health challenges have profoundly affected our relationships, particularly with our closest family members. It's a complex dynamic because our loved ones often witness us going about our daily lives and may overlook the effort it takes for us to accomplish even the simplest tasks. Their expectations can sometimes clash with our physical limitations, leading to an internal conflict. We find ourselves torn between the desire to meet those expectations and the realization of the toll it will exact on our bodies.

While people generally comprehend the idea of illness, what often eludes them is the unceasing nature of certain health challenges. It's not a matter of being unwell only on specific days of the week, like Mondays and Tuesdays, with the rest of the time being in perfect health. Rather, it's an ongoing battle, a reality that molds every moment of our existence. It's not a temporary inconvenience but a permanent aspect of our lives, intricately woven into the very fabric of our daily experiences.

Even with this midfoot sprain, the moment it happened I knew that it would take longer to heal simply because my oxygen levels are already compromised, but I have family members who think ice and epsom salt will make it go away quicker.

Regardless of it being them wanting to help, it confirms once again that my reality isn't acknowledged fully. Their well-intentioned suggestions are coming from a place of care, but also underscore the disconnect between their understanding and the complexity of my situation. While I appreciate their concern, it emphasizes the ongoing struggle of having my reality overlooked or oversimplified – and that’s something a lot of people with invisible illnesses experience.

Anyways, I'm not sure if this week's entry had a clear purpose or why I’ve written so much. I simply wanted to share that my foot is sprained, and the inconsistency in my posts this month might be linked to medical appointments or moments when I find myself lost in self-pity watching reruns of Ugly Betty.

If you happen to be someone who reads this and has an “invincible” illness, or feel like your life is fragmented, just know that you are not alone. These invisible battles, whether they involve health issues or the feeling of fragmentation in life, are real and valid.

The struggle to maintain a sense of normalcy while dealing with the complexities of our situations is challenging, and it's okay to acknowledge the difficulty. You are stronger than you think, and your journey, no matter how fragmented, is uniquely yours.

Best,

S