Be your own health advocate

If no one is there to act on your behalf, you need to step up and make sure you get the care you need

As I noted to readers last Monday, I had been unable to stick to my planned publication schedule because I had fallen ill. Nothing serious, I wrote (and thought), but of course that’s difficult to say with certainty if you haven’t actually seen a doctor (not counting Dr. Google). So, as far as I knew, I was fine, it was just a mild bout of:

a)    Indigestion

b)    Gastro

c)    Flu

d)    Tourista

e)    Covid

f)     Botulism

g)    The Black Plague

Even in the best of times, even mild illness can leave you feeling vulnerable. When you are travelling alone—thousands of kilometres from your family doctor and without the usual army of friends who volunteer to come over and bring you chicken soup, get your groceries, or just check to see if you are still breathing—that “upset tummy” can spread to your brain pretty quickly.

When I woke last Sunday morning in Moissac, I was reminded of one of the many reasons I quit drinking a decade ago. I hadn’t had any booze, but the nauseous feeling of the morning-after-the-night-before was very familiar. It was just after 9 am and I was supposed to check out of my B&B by 10, but my host had mentioned the previous day that it wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule. So I texted her and explained I had a little “gastro” and would like to sleep a few more hours. She replied promptly, telling me to take my time, so I forced myself back to sleep for another 90 minutes. By then, my stomach was telling me that this was not something that could be slept off, so it was off to the WC for some morning prayers to the porcelain god.

Whoooooosh. Brief pause. Whoosh. Pause. Oosh.

Unless my stomach had a hidden reserve tank, it was pretty much empty at that point. And the relief was immediate, if not complete. I felt like the belly might want to go a second round, but was ready to sit quietly for a bit. I wasn’t exactly ready to leave but saw no reason to push the hostess-guest boundaries any farther than I already had. So I packed up and headed down the staircase, passing my adjoining room neighbour, who politely enquired after my health. I guess he, too, had heard my prayers.

My host came out to check on me as well and cheerfully told me, if I am translating correctly, that I looked like ass. She added she hoped her music had not disturbed me, which I assured her it hadn’t. What I didn’t tell her, however, was the smells emanating from her kitchen, which were no doubt in normal circumstances quiet enticing, were inciting my stomach to liberate its contents once more. So I bid a quick adieu as she was inviting me to share my impressions of the B&B.

Perhaps another time. One where the WC did not play such a starring role.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

You will forgive me if I don’t describe in detail my trip to the Moissac train station, its closed washroom, lugging my bag up and down the steep stairs of the railway overpass in the boiling mid-afternoon sun, where the only shelter was occupied by a smoker. Once aboard the train, I drifted in and out of sleep while feeling like I was on the verge of imploding or exploding in a tragi-comic denouement to Peter Goes to France.

We’ve all been there, right? I leave it to your imaginations.

Back in Toulouse, I explained to my Airbnb host what had happened. She felt it important she try and diagnose gastro vs food poisoning, since only the former was contagious. This was a crowded apartment housing the landlord, her daughter and up to three guests at a time, so the concern was quite reasonable. “Excuse me, I am going to sleep for a day,” I said as she shared her diagnosis that it wasn’t gastro. Who needs Dr. Google, right?

I slept pretty much straight through the next 24 hours. No one knocked on my door to see if I was still breathing. No one seemed to notice I hadn’t come out to eat or use the WC. I came out of my shell briefly to write this brief note to my readers, which prompted a worried friend back home to email, “Have you got someone to look after you?”

Yes, unfortunately. Me.

Meanwhile, back in Moissac, my friend Charlie and her partner Jean-Claude had also fallen ill, sparking another round of diagnosis à distance. We had all eaten at the same restaurant, what about other patrons? Turns out several had been ill, some coming back positive on covid tests. But Charlie and JC had very different symptoms, while another friend who had eaten with us and likes to run ultramarathons for fun was in annoyingly top shape.

In other words, most of the options I listed above were still in play.

Although covid no longer provokes the panic it once did, thanks in large part to the success of vaccination programs, it’s still something to be taken seriously. We no longer exile travellers to covid hotels when they test positive, but anyone with an ounce of consideration for their fellow humans still needs to avoid congregate settings, wear masks and exercise caution.

I’d brought some rapid covid tests with me, so I was able to quickly knock that option off the list, fortunately. And now that the illness is behind me, I’m not as preoccupied with the “what.” But how we react to illness while travelling, especially when we are on our own, can allow small problems to grow much bigger than they need be.

Even in Québec, where almost no one needs to worry about whether they can afford to see a doctor, we often hesitate. We don’t want to bother anyone with our little problems, we’re sure they’ll go away soon enough by themselves.

I’m learning that I need to break away from that mindset. I have travel health insurance, the French health system is well-known for its quality, and its professionals are probably better at diagnosing illness than Dr. Google or the airbnb host. I luckily came out okay, but my laisser-faire approach was not the wisest.

That lesson was reinforced this week when I learned that three Québécois actually did contract cases of botulism not that far from Toulouse in the French city of Bordeaux. It made me wonder how long my compatriots waited before realizing they needed help.

When we are alone and in an unfamiliar place, asking for help can be intimidating. But if we were caring for someone we love, we wouldn’t hesitate to get them the help they need. So the trick when you’re on your own is to love yourself enough that you treat yourself with the same compassion.

Thanks for coming on today’s rough ride. Monday I am off to Lyon, Thursday to Geneva. Santé.