Could it really be that simple?

In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been feeling very well lately.

It’s no secret that I’ve been battling ladyparts problems for years now, or that I have IBS.

I used to post about those things once in a while because it involved a funny story, like when I had to pee real bad that time at the ob/gyn’s office but there was someone else’s big giant turd in the toilet, or because venting it all out in one hopefully funny tirade helps me get some perspective, or because I want to share recipes or tips that work for me.

It’s quite out of character for me to be actually maudlin, or whiny, or complainy about how I’m feeling.  But yet… looking at my tweetstream or my facebook status updates there is a hell of a lot of all those things over the past 6 months or so.  A lot.

Also? I’m not the biggest fan of seeking sympathy from people.  But yet… well, see above paragraph.

Also not a fan of feeling sorry for myself at all.  But yet…

I’m the type of person that doesn’t like to sit around and whine and cry about shit. I’d rather employ the Scarlett O’Hara approach, in which, well, I just won’t think about that today, I’ll think about that tomorrow.  By the time tomorrow comes, I usually don’t give a shit anymore because it wasn’t a big deal in the first place.

Or my second approach is what I call, the “well that totally sucked.  Now what are we going to do about it?”  It’s like the scene in the SG1 episode where the team gets mistaken for kidnappers and Vala is trying to get something out of an alarmed glass enclosure, and it doesn’t work out so well.  And by that I mean a bunch of iron bars come crashing down. Instead of walking away, she was all, “Ok, freeing treasure from metal enclosure.”

Those approaches to stress were hard-won lessons for me.  Very hard-won.  I spent most of my life reacting the exact opposite way – obsessing, complaining, ruminating, plotting revenge, cursing the fates.  Even though I knew that wasn’t how I wanted to live my life, and that it didn’t feel right inside, it was hard to break through that.

Looking at all my blog posts over the last year or so, there’s a definite theme.  It’s… listlessness.  Confusion.  Feeling lost.  And extremely little application of either of my two approaches.

IBS is one of many conditions that requires a lot of self-monitoring of diet and behavior. You spend a lot of time thinking about what you ate, what you’re going to eat, what that particular twinge in your stomach means – did I accidentally eat some wheat?

You have to do this to be healthy.  You just have to.  I pissed and moaned and pouted and whined when I first got diagnosed.  And then I did it some more after the results of some food allergy testing.

But eventually I figured it out.  I figured out a diet that worked, an exercise routine, ways to manage stress, all that good stuff.  I didn’t always follow it, because well, beer and bread and cheese and cake and ice cream and pasta are really yummy.  And I learned what the prices of consuming those things were.

I’ve had 10 years to learn to manage my food intolerances and IBS.  10 years.

I’d have to say, at this point I’m pretty damn good at it.

Which is why it was so confusing and scary when I kept having new and ever increasing stomach symptoms.

When my legs started cramping at night so bad I could hardly stand it.

When I would wake up drenched in sweat, but freezing cold.

When my hands and feet were constantly icy.  So much so that my dog and husband would sometimes flinch when I went to touch them.

When I would get so exhausted I would actually stumble into walls when I was walking down the hall.

When I would feel confused and disoriented, or couldn’t remember what I’d had for breakfast, just a few hours ago.

But the worst symptom of all was the fact that I just… didn’t feel like it.  I wasn’t depressed, or sad, exactly. I just didn’t care.

That was pretty scary. There have been times in my life when I’ve struggled with depression, and it’s been mostly situational.  I also worked in mental health for a long time and I know the ways depression can clinically present itself.  I could tell this was different, but I couldn’t understand how or why.

I have a pretty good life.  Sure, I’ve dealt with some pain and possible fertility issues and making big decisions about relocating.  But.  I’m married to a wonderful man, I don’t have to work right now and I have plenty of time to not only heal from surgery and whatnot, but to do all those things I wish I had the time to do when I was working 50 hours a week.  I can read books, read magazines, write, watch TV, take 2 hours to cook a complicated recipe for dinner, play on the internet, learn to sew.

I’m lucky.  Damn lucky.  So why the long face? And why the constant physical symptoms when I was doing everything “right”? That was the question driving me (and probably my husband) almost insane with worry.

When I met with the surgeon, I told him all these things.  Then he pointed out how pale I looked and agreed that it would be a good idea to order “some tests”.

So, four vials of blood later, guess what you guys? It turns out that I’m anemic.

Like really super bad my iron level was 3 anemic.  I’ve likely been anemic, maybe this severely so, for a while now.

But, yeah, that’s it. Just little old anemia.

That is likely the underlying cause of it all. Turns out your blood not circulating through your body the way it should can really fuck your shit up.  Like, all your shit.  Your stomach, your skin, your brain, your joints, your endocrine system.

Here’s a symptom list I found on yahoo that I like to call, Cathy is NOT losing her mind, nor is she going to be on the next episode of one of those medical mystery shows.

The best part? The cure is so easy.  I just take iron twice a day with food.

The worst part? It could take six months or longer to feel “normal” again.

Always with the waiting.

Very funny, universe.  Very funny.