I sent an angry message through my patient portal this morning. It wasn’t that angry, you guys…see how I’m already trying to make sure you don’t think I’m a bitchy “Karen” (ugh, so over that patriarchal garbage)? I wouldn’t want to be accused of being unhinged, or entitled, or shooting messengers. I didn’t want the nurse on the receiving end of my message to be upset with me, either; I made it clear that I knew she was the wrong person to absorb my frustration, and I apologized for that. But I was angry. And my anger was justifiable.
Since January, I’ve undergone a number of diagnostic tests related to my autoimmune swallowing disorder—achalasia. I was diagnosed with it shortly after giving birth to my youngest child after a difficult pregnancy. It wasn’t traditional hyperemesis; food was getting stuck in my throat and I couldn’t swallow, resulting in constant daily vomiting.
My esophagus lacks propulsive motion, and while this condition can’t be “fixed,” there are procedures to treat it. I had a major surgery four years ago that primarily eliminated my symptoms, although I will eat slowly and drink water with meals for the rest of my life. But after some flare-ups over the summer and an endoscopy that revealed a diaphragmatic hernia, I was referred to a new surgeon.
The first two tests revealed NO hernia.
I requested we touch base before the final two diagnostics (wait, if there’s no hernia, what are we doing here?) and was told the surgeon simply would not speak to me until I finished four.
The last procedure is the actual worst test I have ever endured (I’ve had it twice already) and involves a tube going up your nose and down your throat. I had expressed repeatedly that I did not want to do this test ever again and was unclear why we needed to now. I low-key begged: “Is there any other option than this test?”
I felt helpless; the surgeon was holding my results hostage until I completed an invasive test that I was actively dreading. (It’s called esophageal manometry, if any of you are interested in researching torture.)
I scheduled it anyway, after taking a month off to evaluate my options.
It was last Friday, and it was a disaster. I will spare you the awful details, but there was bleeding, multiple attempts to insert the tube, and when I asked what would happen if we couldn’t make it work, the nurse practitioner said, “I’ll order THE MARSHMALLOW BAGEL STUDY.”
Listen. I’m not a doctor. But . . . gagging down a nose-tube while bleeding and crying versus eating a fucking bagel in the radiology department?
I was livid. I understand that the former is probably the preferable diagnostic for accuracy. But my surgeon—the same one who literally did not acknowledge me in the OR for procedure #1, nor did she speak to me in the recovery room afterwards—would not even discuss it with me.
I was raised in the 1980s in the Midwest. I am female. I am a Scandinavian (lapsed) Lutheran. My Midwest Nice is an albatross around my feminist neck. I am supposed to be polite.
Over a decade ago, I had a piece in a humor publication during the month of November as an antidote to “gratitude season.” I can’t remember the title or the pub, but it was something along the lines of “In praise of complaining.” Let’s unpack this.
In addition to my aforementioned upbringing and cultural/genetic heritage, I am also a very optimistic person. Joie de vivre is my jam. I clap with excitement when my food arrives at a restaurant. I give myself “pleasure vines” to grab throughout my day, and find joy with relative ease. I am—and have always been—happy and positive by nature.
But you guys, I am here for complaining. I can’t stand it when someone tells me something shitty that happened in their day and immediately follows it with: “But it’s ok; I’ll be fine. It could be worse.” Do not! Just be pissed that your schedule is packed and Chipotle gave you the wrong order and you ripped your favorite dress and your dog threw up on your bed! It’s ok! Let it out! No disclaimer required!
One of my hallmark beliefs is that I do not think it is useful to shame ourselves into gratitude. Sucks that I broke my leg . . . but that guy doesn’t even have a leg! I think complaining sometimes bonds us to one another—it gives us common ground, a level playing field. Revealing your vulnerability and not packing down your emotions is a good thing—it enables you to connect with others. I always love when brunch with friends turns into a round-robin of complaining about one’s romantic partners—fun!
When I became a mother, I was unprepared for the ambivalence—I loved my babies so much I wanted to eat them, but also, well, this sucks! I made it my mission to write honestly about motherhood, not to sugarcoat it, to give myself and other women permission to feel our feelings and express them. To be honest, I don’t actually view this as complaining. I don’t know what to call it. Venting is a popular choice, but here’s another thing.
Actual complaining? Being negative just for the sake of being negative? Well, I hate that shit, too! You know those people who have a dark storm cloud following them around? Charlie Brown always gets a rock? Eeyore’s tail is perpetually jacked up? Nobody wants that energy invading their space. So what’s the difference between the kind of “complaining” I think brings people together and offers emotional release versus the pervasive negativity that is such a turn-off?
Which brings me, in a meandering way, to my point, if you could call it that. This murky area between gratitude, counting one’s blessings, looking on brightsides, toxic positivity, being a Debbie Downer, and expressing dismay or demanding better treatment is a real mess. Especially for women.
On the one hand, we DO want to look on the bright side, enjoy life, have optimism.
On the other hand, we want to be able to honestly express our frustration, disappointment, and overwhelm.
On the third hand (this is an Octopus, you guys), we don’t want to be a KAREN, do we? (This is a whole-ass post of its own.)
The fourth: Prolonged wallowing and constant criticism isn’t cool; nobody wants to be around a Negative Nellie, and also, that stuff shortens your life expectancy for real.
The fifth and final (forget the Octopus, I tried)—What happens when we are wronged, or when we witness injustice, or even when we paid for the damn Pad Thai but when we got home, it had no sauce?
I do not have this dialed in. I just said I disagree with the practice of “shaming oneself into gratitude,” and when my teenager complained about the crowded light rail after the No Kings protest last weekend, I urged her to think about the people for whom we were protesting. Yikes; that was a little shitty of me. But also, get it together!
A friend of mine had cancer surgery and unapologetically told me how much she dislikes the way her body looks now. I was so glad she shared how she felt without tacking on, “But I’m so thankful to be alive,” and I told her so.
I practice gratitude in large and small ways, but try not to detour through guilt or shame first. Sometime around my autoimmune diagnosis, I developed an intolerance for gluten. Removing it from my diet helped me in myriad ways, and when I tried to reintroduce it, my body said no. But last December, I was “glutened” when a server brought me the wrong pizza. Nothing happened. I waited a few days. I tried some more. So far, so good. What does gluten have to do with gratitude?
HAVE YOU EVER EATEN A CROISSANT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN EIGHT YEARS OH MY GOD.
When I had Medical Diagnostic #3 a few weeks ago and had to fast all day, the first drink of water was like the best thing that ever happened to me. But it’s not just the little things—I frequently pause and take in the gifts of my life: the people I love, the work I do, a home and a yard, my body is healthy enough to move and play.
I do think we should zoom out and appreciate things we often take for granted—a less toxic version of “counting our blessings.” My friend Karen T. Smith has a beautiful practice—and Substack column—of finding three good things every single day that bring joy, and writing about it. This is a fantastic example of how gratitude and perspective do not need to be synonymous with self-erasure, shame, or the word “Pollyanna.”
But also? Complain if you need to! Tell me you hate what that medicine does to your skin even though it makes you feel better everywhere else! Trash talk your boss for hurting your feelings! Tell your medical staff that they treated you with a lack of respect and it caused damage (maybe don’t tell them to shove the marshmallow bagel where the sun don’t shine, but listen, that’s a personal choice).
I think it all comes down to this. The Prophet Taylor Swift one wrote,
“Never be so polite you forget your power. Never wield such power you forget to be polite.”
I couldn’t say it any better than that.
XO,
Steph
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