Side Effects and Constants

The next week brought with it increased nervous energy and more prednisone. I recalled reading about side effects of the medication, but like most drugs, I figured I would acquire practically none of them. I was quickly proven wrong. The days that followed I began to note extreme nervous energy, feeling as if I had consumed five cups of coffee round the clock. With that came a motivation to move, which manifested in odd need to clean. Anything and everything. While my mom worked driving school buses, I found myself organizing, dusting and polishing her closet. I reorganized her entire wardrobe by color and size. I scrubbed bathroom floors and vacuumed every room. I cleaned with such intensity. I don’t think the old raised ranch ever shone so brightly. I feverishly placed all of my efforts into daily projects. Anything to keep my mind off of reality. Anything to keep at bay the feeling I would soon crawl out of my own skin.

With the increased nervous energy came other, less productive and certainly less desirable side effects. I began to notice my weight increase. At first, I didn’t so much mind. At first. My abdomen began to fill back in and I could no longer see my protruding ribs. My thighs began to again resemble legs rather than arms. My jeans were no longer loose, and my shirts began to feel like they were mine again. But my body was different. My once toned abs and arms were gone. The years of training in volleyball had vanished in only a few months. I was no longer fit. And I knew it. I was frustrated, having a large portion of my self esteem once placed in my ability for athletics. I would enter volleyball tournaments, play any pick up games I could find, anything to be competitive. I spent hours at the gym weight training and getting stronger. I pushed myself and then pushed some more. I prided myself on my ability to push past any physical pain in an effort to achieve a goal. And now, I looked down at my barely 21 year old body, barely recognizing it. It didn’t feel the same, and it certainly didn’t look the same. Each movement I took felt like I was in someone else’s body, moving someone else’s knees and flexing someone else’s hands. I often found myself looking down and watching my joints move, feeling I had to ‘relearn’ my new body, which ultimately felt nothing like a new body. I felt someone had swiped my once athletic build for the build of a tired 75 year old lady. No, I wasn’t familiar with this body. And I didn’t trust it.

Days passed and I noticed my face begin to swell. I knew it was the prednisone. All too soon the ‘deposits of fat’ that I had read about on that dreadful purple page had become my reality. My neck, abdomen and face began to swell at a rapid rate. And they continued to do so. My face changed, as my cheeks filled in and for the first time in my life, the girl ‘too skinny and too tall’ developed a double chin. I was horrified and angered by this. In disbelief, I placed the palms of my hands to my cheeks, feeling how they had grown. My jaw bone was no longer palpable and my face had rounded to the point where I could see my cheeks puffing out by simply looking down. I could feel the deposits also on the back of my neck, creating a less than attractive ‘hump’. I was devastated, feeling there must be something, anything I could do to make this stop. I had finally resigned myself to taking medications, and now it was not so much my disease, but my medications that were giving me problems! This was unacceptable.

I knew I looked different. I had become squeamish at the sight of my own reflection in the mirror. I began avoiding even making eye contact in the mirror in an effort to try and forget my appearance. But I could feel it. I knew my looks were rapidly changing and certainly not for the better. There did however, still remain a small part of me that hoped ‘it was in my head’. That what I saw somehow was not what others would see. That maybe I was being too much of a ‘girl’ about things. My mom tried desperately to reassure me that I was beautiful and that ‘it didn’t matter’.

But to me, it did matter. It mattered too much perhaps.

That afternoon I heard a familiar laugh coming up the stairs. I lied in my bed and knew someone had come to see me. I heard my mom tell the familiar guest that I was in my room. I paused a few moments and looked to my doorway to see the smiling face bordered in soft blonde hair of my friend Rachel. She had been a constant for me these past months, more than I could have imagined. I was surprised to see how few friends actually remained constants. It’s easy to feel loved and ‘popular’ when things are easy. I learned quickly that things are not always as they seem, and the pack quickly thins with change. Most of my ‘friends’ had quickly faded into my memories, and I resigned myself to letting them move on with their own lives. I couldn’t blame them. A lot of them were still in New York, a full eight hours away. And more, I was the one who had changed. I was reminded of that by the cards they had once sent and things they talked about. The trivial drama around campus to me was no longer relevant. But I was happy for my constant friend. I recalled her spending hours with me these past months, simply lying on the floor in my room without a complaint while I lied in my bed. We talked for hours about anything and everything from college to crushes to our fears and our plans. The sicker I got, the more she came. She even began bringing me presents. Scented lotions, bath gels, back massagers. Anything she could think of to help alleviate some of the pain. I was surprised to see how my physical pain affected her. I could see it all over her face. I never did use the lotions. But it was nice to feel loved by my friend.

Some time had passed, and I braced myself for what I feared would come. That day she entered to door frame to my room. I saw her blue eyes take one wide look at me in bed and instantly hit the floor. I knew she was startled by my changing appearance. I was startled by my changing appearance. To my horror, her look confirmed my fears. I wasn’t being a ‘girl’ about things at all. No, things were as they seemed. And things were out of control. A wave of shame washed over me and a strong urge to curl under my covers pressed on my mind. I knew I shouldn’t feel that way which brought only more feelings of guilt and shame. She quickly smiled and busily started talking about something light. Ignoring her efforts to change the subject, I blurted out in horror, ‘look at my face’. We were both stunned. I was no longer the girl ‘too skinny and too tall’. I had no control over how I felt. I knew that. I had no control over my pain. I knew that too, having only just come to terms with my ‘new’ body. But now, to not be able to control how I looked? I was in my 20’s. How was this happening? Would I ever be seen as pretty?

For a while I considered not eating in an effort to curb any more weight gain. I wondered if I skipped meals if my face would go down. Those efforts were faced head on with a fierce increase in appetite, another side effect of the prednisone. I played over in my mind Dr. Arnold’s words that most her patients “gain a minimum of 60 pounds” on the dosage I had been on. I believed her, recalling how I no longer felt ‘full’. I recalled the sad looks from the receptionists in her office. I remembered the goldfish I had hid under my bed. My weight had returned to what it once was and while I certainly hadn’t gained near what the typical patient had gained, I was no less devastated by the ravaging effects of the prednisone on my appearance.

With the prednisone also came intense mood swings. The tears came. And they came a lot. I spent hours in my room with my knees curled to my white wicker chair, crying. I wasn’t always even sure why. I grieved for the life I once had. I grieved for the dreams that had now gone. I grieved for the body I was left with. My mom desperately tried to cheer me.

I was inconsolable.