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.

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 30th, 2007 at 5:21 pm and is filed under Antonia projects. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.