It has been some time since I was able to post on this blog, due to the unexpectedly early arrival of my son — a new traveler to join the ranks of the wanderlust-struck, with a pedigree to keep him bouncing around the world: half pure British, a quarter Russian, and a quarter usual American mutt mix of Scots-Irish, French, and Scandinavian. Will he drink tea, and if so, how? Assam with milk like his father, or strong and black with a side of shockingly sweet jam (actually, varenye, which is like a concentrated jam) as his Russian relatives drink? Or will he be a latte- and fresh-roasted coffee addict like my Seattle-influenced mother?
But more important than his potential caffeine addiction is the effect the last week has had on my traveling thoughts: in short, the introduction of fear, or at least caution.
I won’t go into garishly personal details, but last week I was admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with a condition called HELLP Syndrome, which, to be brief, is an illness related to pregnancy, whose cause is unknown and whose only cure is delivery. It is the leading cause of childbirth-related deaths in the Western world, very likely due to misdiagnosis (it easily mimics stomach bugs and gallbladder problems), and I feel more than lucky to have an obstetrician who recognized the symptoms and knew immediately what to do. (Public Health Busybody Notice: If you know someone who is pregnant, please make sure they get adequate blood work on their platelet and liver enzyme levels if they go to the doctor with an irritating stomach complaint.) She said, “So, either we deliver or your liver will fail.” Um, okay.
Travel connection, you ask? Three weeks before this event, I was with my husband and in-laws on an underpopulated Scottish island, enjoying scenery, the sea, and malt whiskey. At this moment I am looking at a doctor’s note on my desk that allows me to travel for another two days from now. What if I had taken advantage of that note? What if this had happened, say, on that little island, where the only option for urgent medical care is an hour-long airlift to Glasgow? And what about the month-long hospital stay my son is looking forward to? Would we have been able to stay in the country? Or, since HELLP can hit at any time, what if I had been in Russia a couple months ago at the writing conference that I love but had to miss out on this year? That’s not to say that these places don’t have good medical care, but one can’t help asking ‘what if.’
Thirty years of disgustingly good health have given me a nonchalant attitude toward the role of health issues and medical emergencies in my choice of traveling times and destinations. I like deserts, remote and chilly islands, and anywhere with ice. Constrictions have been due more to sheer laziness and a liking for things like regular meals than caution. Fear has never been a factor in my travel. But now it has entered. Specifically, since one of the risk factors for HELLP is if you’ve had it before, I know I won’t be traveling during a subsequent pregnancy. Nine months is a long time without a flight, but even if I were willing to risk it, my husband wouldn’t be. Generally, I wonder about my future attitude toward travel. Will I worry more, both about my health and that of my family’s? Will I not-so-subconsciously choose places likely to have good emergency medical care? Will I limit sojourns in places that previously gave me heart’s ease? Will tension permeate hiking treks far from civilization?
None of us ever want fear to limit our choices, or our options. But as I slather arnica on veins bruised by IV lines, I wonder if I will become one of the travelers constrained by worry.
There’s nothing like pregnancy to frustrate a woman who likes to be in charge. The body does these strange things, develops these bizarre diseases, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I had preeclampsia with my first and low-grade gestational diabetes with my second, and was quite annoyed with my normally healthy body for coming up with all this stupid stuff.
It’s easy for me to say, but a few year’s perspective shows me that there are plenty of opportunities coming up to drag your kid hither and thither, and nine months of laying low won’t seem so long in comparison.
What’ll REALLY make you mad is figuring out a decently clean place in the world to change a diaper or nurse a baby.
Antonia – many congratulations, and sorry you had such a rough time. Amber Sahsi was born after a 5.5 day labour by emergency c section, and it does take it out of you! I remember a line in Lance Armstrongs autobiography when he said that throughout all of his illness he was never so scared as when his first child was born not breathing for his first few minutes, and there was nothing Lance could do. I guess that fear never completely leaves you, but I try to look on life as a celebration of life. Bad shit can happen at home – you can’t avoid it, it can only stop you from living and enjoying your life.
And if that fails then a sat phone, gps and the number of someone with a helicopter is my plan!
Steve
Thanks to both of you! The thought of hesitating when traveling is a new one to me, but it sounds like it’s going to be permanent. As both of you pointed out, though, we all have to just make the conscious decision not to let hesitation turn into choosing not to go.
The fear interests me partly because a few years ago I also developed a fear of flying, out of the blue. As in, I now always get the sweaty-palmed nervousness every time there’s a tiny bit of turbulence. But it never occurred to me not to fly. This feels somehow different, more personal. Maybe it’s to do with the personal control Sheila mentioned?
In any case, since Sheila is a dab hand at traveling with kids, and Steve is a fairly new dad himself, I expect lots of advice from both of you!
Hi Antonia,
Just noticed that you committed the ultimate heresy for our deep-fried Mars bar eating Northern cousins – spelling Whisky with an ‘e’!
Scotch is spelt whisky, where as it is only the Americans and the Irish who make whiskey! Drinking American or Irish whiskey on the Scottish Islands is an even greater heresy!
Take care,
Steve
Steve, I am covered in shame. Such a travesty! And I know better, too. The residents of Islay (where Bowmore, Ardbeg, Caol Ila, and several other of my favorite peaty malts are distilled) will never allow me to step foot on the island again. Lay on the whisky-soaked cat-’o-nine-tails!
Gosh, I guess we bourbon drinkers have it easy in the spelling department….:)
Borbon? Berbin? Buhbin? How do you spell it phonetically in various accents? Kentucky? Tennessee? Louisiana? For that matter, how do you phonetically spell those states’ names in the accent of their natives?