Lately I’ve been playing an annoying and ultimately counterproductive game of “What If?” You’ve all played this in some way or another, so you know as well as I do that it never ends anywhere good, does it?

Specifically, I have been asking myself “What if I had energy?” When I get frustrated over my current lack of it, I can’t help speculating: What would it feel like to make plans and be able to keep them? What would it be like to not need an entire pot of coffee (gross, I know!!!!) in order to function? What would it feel like to come home at the end of the day and accomplish something other than collapsing on the couch? What would I do if I woke up in the morning without feeling foggy in the brain and achy in the muscles? Most of all, what would I say if I didn’t have to say “I’m too tired” so much?

Really helpful, right? To make it worse, I’ve been looking back to my college days, when I was what I considered really busy—I took five classes, worked on the campus newspaper, interned at a national newspaper, volunteered at the hospital, etc. “I wish you knew me when I had energy, when I could do everything I wanted to,” I say to my husband every now and again. Suddenly, the old me seems so much more productive and engaged than the person I know now. I still juggle a lot of projects, but I’m not pulling 18 and 20-hour days at a stretch like I used to; I can’t even contemplate being out and about that long anymore.

But memories can be deceptive, and when we look back at them, there’s often a reason, an agenda or subconscious motive, that skews how we see ourselves. We can re-write past romantic relationships as either wonderful or terrible, depending on what we need them to be to feel good in the present, or we can reconfigure academic or professional failures to be someone else’s fault when it hurts too much to accept them for what they are in the here and now. The list could go on and on. When I look back at the “busy” me and see this stage as something to strive for once again, I think it’s really because of two things: 1. It is hard to admit how much has changed in terms of my health and 2. I have a hard time scaling back and doing this is a way to thwart my own progress in doing so.

When I really look at the facts, I can see how misleading my own nostalgia really is. First of all, I did have more energy back then because my adrenal system hadn’t failed yet (that would happen two years out of college), I wasn’t dealing with steroid withdrawal (I was still on them full-throttle), and my chronic fatigue wasn’t exacerbated by these two other complications like it is now.

Secondly, I was my own worst enemy in those days—I’d run myself to the ground, get an infection, and then spend several weeks a semester in the hospital as a result. Sure, I had energy for a couple weeks at a time, but I pushed too hard and wound up paying for it. It is convenient to overlook that fact when I wax nostalgic about how over-extended I used to be, but the reality is that the way I acted didn’t give my body a fighting chance to establish any sort of control or stability.

So I may not run around in a million different directions and I may not define myself by the number of activities I do, but I have more balance. Yes, I wish I had more energy and yes, I miss being able to do things I want to do, but regressing to my former way of living certainly isn’t going to improve that scenario.

Now, if only I could remember that more when I start to play “What if…” Nostalgia is inevitable, but it isn’t always accurate.

As Good as It Gets? Thank You Very Much

The Wedneday night before Thanksgiving, I collapsed on the couch just in time to watch “Top Chef” with my husband. I had the day off and spent most of it preparing appetizers for the next day’s feast—in between bouts of coughing, wheezing, and assorted aches and pains. For weeks now I’ve been battling what I refer to as a “high-functioning plague,” a respiratory infection that has lodged itself in my lungs and won’t let go. While it makes breathing difficult and congestion constant, I am usually still able to go about my daily activities and am not confined to bed. I feel sick, but it is a functional sick, so it is okay.

During the commercial breaks, my husband and I chatted a bit about our upcoming few weeks. I mentioned needing to schedule a test I’d had to cancel earlier this fall, and the conversation eventually drifted towards an inevitable topic with us these days: maintaining stability. It’s been 10 months since I’ve had a seriously acute respiratory event and needed to be hospitalized, the longest stretch I’ve had in over a decade. I am so conditioned to expect critical illness that sometimes I can’t even believe it. I’ve had to juggle several other conditions, but they are more life-altering than life-threatening.

Three years ago, I spent the entire week of Thanksgiving in the hospital. I spent Christmas Eve of that year being transported by ambulance from my parents’ hometown hospital to my Boston hospital, one Christmas out of the past five I have spent in the hospital in recent years. Holidays haven’t always been especially festive for me.

But here it was, the night before Thanksgiving. My appetizers were finally ready, my condo was scrubbed clean, one of my favorite shows was on, and I wasn’t anywhere near the hospital. The holidays were indeed making a comeback.

As the night progressed, my symptoms worsened. I turned pale, got clammy and sweaty, and the exhaustion in my arms and legs was overwhelming. This was a nightly occurrence, as was the coughing jag that followed. We barely noticed it, only pausing to turn the volume on the television up more so we could still hear it above all my racket.

“It’s not great, but it’s a lot better than the past few years. I’m not healthy, but I am stable,” I said to John.

“It might just be as good as it gets. And you know what? I’ll take it.”

“Me too,” he said. “It’s more than good enough for me.

And when we sat down to dinner the next day with our family—including my father, who only a few months ago underwent heart surgery, my mother, whose joints would pay for her meal preparations for days to come but whose smile didn’t show that, and my niece, a healthy and happy two-year-old—we knew that while stable never means perfect, we’ll gratefully and thankfully take it for all of us.

Invincibility and Illness

One evening last week, I noticed a girl doing something I would never do on that particular stretch of urban street: walking alone in the dark. Granted, it wasn’t extremely late and there were lots of cars and buses on the street. But it was a poorly lit section of road in a pretty tough area—one where a gang of children (children!), ages 10-14, had nearly stabbed a man to death around 9pm just a few weeks ago—and with lots of dark alleys and shadowy hills, it wasn’t exactly a welcoming area once the sun went down.

I could tell she was a college student: she looked about 18, she was wearing a sweatshirt with the insignia of a university just a few blocks away, she had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and like many of the students I see on my campus, she had iPod headphones in her ears and Ugg boots on her feet.

Beyond these telling details, there was something else that told me she was in college: her air of invincibility. She strolled down that dodgy, dangerous street confidently. I admired her for this, but I also worried about her on account of this.

I think it’s an almost universal experience, that sense of invincibility and fearlessness so common during the college years. We’re insistent that we can work hard and play hard; we take challenging courses as we balance campus parties and social events. We stagger home from bars late at night, usually without worrying about if this is safe. We pull all-nighters to cram for finals without considering what this does to our bodies. We eat unbalanced meals at ungodly hours, we think coffee is an equal substitute for rest, and we think because we are young, we can get away with it.

In college, I may just have been foolish enough to walk alone in a city at night. In fact, I know I did this on more than one occasion, buoyed by the false notion that because I was in a “good” area that guaranteed nothing bad could happen. But for me, this air of invincibility was even more pronounced when it came to my health. In addition to the typical age-related tendency towards taking risks, I had to contend with my innate response to the interruptions of chronic illness—the harder it pushed me, the harder I pushed back.

I over-extended myself largely to prove that I could do whatever I wanted despite being sick. I took on too many extra-curricular activities, I spent far too many nights at the newspaper till 6 am, I hated to turn down plans with friends. Each time I went into the hospital, I came out of it with an even more relentless attitude towards taking on too much. Did I ever really think taking such risks with my health would work out favorably for me? Did I ever really believe that none of this would catch up with me in the end?

Of course I didn’t. But that didn’t stop me in those days.

My belief in my own invincibility is much more muted these days. Now I am the one reminding my young students not to roam the city streets alone. Between my vigilant attention to local news and surging violence and my evolving realization that none of us are untouchable when it comes to taking risks, I’d sooner spend my last few dollars on a cab then put myself in a potentially dangerous situation that is both completely predictable and avoidable. I am not ruled by fear, but I think about safety much more than I did when I was in college.

In terms of my health, the gradual progression of my conditions has forced me to abandon the notion that the choices I make don’t have consequences. I spend far more time and energy trying to prevent symptoms from worsening and trying to maintain a balance between what I want and what my body needs than I do in trying to “strike back” at illness or prove that it can’t stop me.

Part of this transformation is simply the maturation process all young adults go through, and part of it can be attributed to the fact that at some point, we get too sick to be able to pretend we’re otherwise any longer. For me, this all happened at the same time.

I watched the young girl disappear into the shadows as my bus pulled away from her somewhat wistfully. Sometimes I miss that invincibility, that ability to take such risks without worrying about the consequences—but such nostalgia is fleeting. I may not take the same kind of risks, but I don’t pay the same consequences either.