Overcoming Medical Trauma with IBD

I have anxiety. 

I am afraid to speak up, almost all the time.

I press my nails hard into my palms when I think about why I said “How are you?” too quietly. 

I bring this up because about one year ago, I had an allergic reaction to an infusion. I had been on this infusion for several months, almost a year at the time. At first, I stayed quiet about the symptoms I had been feeling for a couple of weeks leading up to it.

I think a part of me genuinely thought it was in my head. When people around you are constantly telling you your illness is your fault or that you look fine or that your symptoms are just your anxiety, you start to believe it. 

It started with red, blotchy spots all over my skin. Some days were worse than others and eventually, I went to see a dermatologist who prescribed me a topical medication and I didn’t think anything of it except for the occasional feeling of shame when the spots became more visible. 

At the infusion before my reaction, I remember just thirty minutes into it, I felt so sick. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears and everything felt slow. I remember trying to explain that I wasn’t feeling well and then downplayed it for just being tired because I’m used to doing that.

At my next appointment, the same thing happened. I started to cough and my lungs and throat felt itchy. I felt little ants all over me, starting at my feet all the way up to my chest. I stayed quiet still because I thought I was just making it up in my head until my nurse pointed out that I looked a little flushed. 

When I got up to go to the bathroom to check it out, with the IV machine trailing behind me, I stared at the mirror in absolute shock when I saw welts the size of quarters flooding my skin and hives spreading quickly across my chest and neck. My mother who was with me became panicked and called the nurse who immediately notified the doctor. 

I remember I started laughing hysterically because I was so afraid. The nurse quickly started Benadryl through my IV and I was just shaking because I felt so cold. The doctor was asking clarifying questions but they just sounded like echoes in my head. Eventually, the reaction subsided and I just layed there, stiff, with anxiety. 

What I didn’t know was that ever since that day, anytime I go to an infusion or take one of my medications I am so afraid of it happening again. I got lucky that my nurse noticed something was wrong before it was too late, but I can’t help but wonder if I had just spoken up earlier I could have avoided all of this in the first place.

But I want to stress that it is not your fault for not speaking up. Sometimes it can feel like anxiety is taking control over your life but every day you struggle with anxiety and still choose life, you are the one taking control of your life. 

I don’t feel guilty anymore for not speaking up then but now I understand that I deserve to speak up for myself now. I deserve to be heard. When it comes to your health, it is never just in your head. What I mean by that is whatever symptom you are feeling-- whether it be a physical manifestation of anxiety, racing thoughts, pain, discomfort-- those are all valid and not imaginative. 

The next time you feel too anxious to speak up, just remember that you deserve to be heard. 

This article is sponsored by Lyfebulb.

Lyfebulb is a patient empowerment platform, which centers around improving the lives of those impacted by chronic disease.

How My Mental Health Was Affected by IBD

Mental health has been on my mind a lot lately. From hearing it in relation to the COVID-19 pandemic, to having conversations about the need for more resources for IBD patients, to dealing with my own experiences with depression and anxiety - mental health resources are perhaps one of the most underrated and underfunded sectors of healthcare. I realize this as I’ve gotten older, immersed myself in the medical field, and as I have utilized it for my own mental health after being diagnosed with ulcerative colitis (UC) in 2016. 

I bet many of you have also dealt with IBD affecting your mental health whether you realize it or not. For most of us, we were the only person we knew who had IBD at the time we were diagnosed. Some of us may not have even heard of it until we were told after our colonoscopy or endoscopy. The world around you suddenly feels a lot busier and bigger, and you feel very small and alone. Alone, wrapped up in your thoughts, your pain, your exhaustion, your fear. None of us asked for this. What did we do to deserve this?! In the days after my colonoscopy, this thought permeated my mind and I wanted to curl up in a ball and wish it all away. 

But, you can’t do that when you are a busy pre-med student working full time and taking classes! We are expected to stay strong and keep up our front that says “Everything’s fine,” when, in fact, we’re not. I had great people to talk to and that would listen to me, but I still went through a mourning process. I mourned my life before when I thought I “just had a sensitive stomach.” I mourned that fact that my diet would probably change and change again and that I maybe would have to be on immunosuppressive medication. I dreaded the future conversations that would come up when someone would ask why I had to go to the bathroom so much or why I couldn’t eat or drink something. Really, everything’s fine…

But, it’s not. CHRONIC is a word that I hoped never to hear in regard to my medical history. We now have a new label that we must carry for the rest of our lives, and it’s anything but predictable. We have to explain this diagnosis so many times we feel like it might actually define us. The reality of my UC diagnosis began to truly sink in and anxiety began to seep into my daily life. My energy and concentration was poured into reading about UC, finding a better “diet”, looking for tips on how to achieve and stay in remission, and finding some kind of outlet for my anger and frustration.

Honestly, I should have given myself a little more time to process and try to seek the help of a mental health professional. Now, I think, I should’ve thought about my IBD and mental health together rather than separately. I let myself have a little time to mourn my UC diagnosis, but I thought I needed to be strong and keep my diagnosis to myself, much like others had before me. If we don’t look sick, perhaps no one will know. Even when we try our best to be strong and adapt to this normal, our mental health often still ends up suffering. 

I think it would make such a positive difference in the lives of so many if we are all equipped with a medical and mental health treatment plan after being diagnosed with IBD, because the fact of the matter is that the mental health symptoms are just as debilitating as the physical symptoms of IBD, and they’re often intertwined. We need this kind of support as we manage our diagnosis - which sometimes can land us in the hospital or needing major surgery. I can’t speak to these kinds of experiences, but they can be traumatic in their own ways. How many failed medications or pain does one endure until they receive a potentially life-changing surgery? Thinking of the mental health hurdles that my co-fellows have dealt with and shared so vulnerably leaves me in awe of their strength. When they share what they have lived through, it also makes me sad that there was not adequate mental health services available to some of them when it could have offered an outlet for some of their pain.

Even now, almost 5 years out from my diagnosis, I take medication for my depression/anxiety and have re-established a relationship with a counselor that has experience in treating clients with chronic illnesses. I still go through the peaks and valleys of life and IBD, but, now, I’m better equipped to handle the lows when they hit or when a flare affects my mood and interest in doing things. I want the mental health support that has been so instrumental to some of my healing to be more accessible and affordable for those with IBD in the near future. 

I hope speaking candidly about mental health and sharing some of these reflections helps you feel less alone and more validated in what you’ve been going through. The process of untangling all of these emotions is normal when grappling with a chronic illness diagnosis and what that means for you and those you love. Everyone processes major life changes and trauma differently, but don’t be afraid to ask about mental health services when you see your GI or primary care provider. Finding the right mental health support could be the treatment you never knew you needed.