Thought of the Day 04-Jul-15: Zombie Fingers

A: Hi, I'm your diseased digit, can you please go see a doctor before I fall off?!

I'll be the first to admit that I tend to worry about shit that isn't really a big deal while ignoring signs of legitimate concern. See exhibits A and B, respectively. I had been trying to hold out for a Permanent Resident visa status so that my health insurance would kick in, but yesterday I finally gave in and had my slowly dying fingertips looked at by a doctor.  Suspecting I had contracted some sort of flesh-eating bacteria or fungal infection, I made the call when I noticed new spots on my other hand which meant it was spreading. I would never have guessed, not in a million years, the nature of the underlying issue.

B: If you're fingers look like this, it is NOT NORMAL!

After a 2 hour wait at an urgent care facility because my immigrant status does not allow me to schedule regular doctors' appointments, I was (embarrassingly) relieved to be called by a doctor with an obvious American accent. For some reason knowing that she was trained in the States (even in Virginia, Zing!), put me at ease. Also, becoming qualified to practice medicine in New Zealand as an immigrant is damned-near impossible, so I was fully confident in this doctor's competence, despite her Southern origin, haha. I immediately launched into the tale of my zombie fingers: The first appearance of these strange, red, sore, dry, hardened, blotches on the fingers of my right hand occurred about ten months ago in the US, shortly after beginning work in a chemistry lab. When I left that job and moved to New Zealand they went away, but reappeared about four months after taking up similar work here. Surely I had some kind of hand dermatitis, an allergy to a chemical ubiquitous in such laboratory environments; right? Wrong. 

Dr. Daisy Mae took my hand, turned it over to look at my fingernails, then asked me to looked up towards the ceiling as she inspected the white areas of my eyes. She then asked me if I was a vegetarian, to which I proudly proclaimed "hell no." Yet with 100% certainty and without hesitation she stated that I was anaemic. Uh, no, sorry; she must have thought she was talking to someone who did not meticulously analyze and plan everything they put into their body, taking in the perfect portions of protein, fat and carbohydrates to keep their preciously well-oiled machine in ship-shape. That is the person I am. Not too mention the fact that the primary sign of anaemia is fatigue and lethargy, qualities I disdain above all others, and had certainly never experienced. Shit, I'm a bundle of energy at the worst of times, if I'm anaemic now and correct the issue, I may well spin off into outer-fucking-space!

After hearing her out and seeing the images of anaemic fingernails (see below), however, the evidence was irrefutable. Dr. Miss Virginia went on to explain that the patches were caused by a lack of oxygen to my extremities; my fingertips were, in fact, becoming necrotic and the tissue was dying which in turn causes soreness from inflammation. Awesome. That's also about the same time I realized that both times these red spots materialized were instances when I went off my otherwise extremely faithful regimen of abundant vitamins (both multi and extra vitamin C). The most recent lapse being that I had run out of my US supply and I simply refused to pay the exorbitant price of vitamins in New Zealand. Well guess what the current treatment was to be? A daily high potency multivitamin as well as an iron-vitmamin C combo supplement. Over $100 bucks later I just hope they kick-in in time to stop my fingers from craving brains.

My nails have looked like this for a very long time; how could I have known?

Imagine my shock when I saw (what appeared to be) my nails on an anaemia diagnosis website.

More concerning, though I may eat plenty of iron and other essential fuels thanks to my fastidious eating habits, that doesn't necessarily mean my body is absorbing them. Thus, this anaemia is likely a sign of a bigger issue, but that investigation really will have to wait until I have insurance. I suspect that the ultimate diagnosis will also link to both my chronic constipation and struggle with low blood sugar levels. Clearly, my body is not properly absorbing or responding to nutrients.

So, not consciously realizing that this news affected me on any real emotional level, my flatmate made the observation that I was acting a bit more abrasive than normal. And oh the beauty of my filterless mouth, speaking the truth that had been eluding my Mind until I heard its own words: "I don't want to be anaemic! I do everything right, eat all the right foods; so why is my body still broken?! I lost weight to be healthy, yet ever since I did my body has been in a slow decline." Sad though it may seem, this is how I view my current situation. 

In comes the difference between knowing versus believing. I know I am whole, I know I am a good person with good intentions, that my Body is not completely failing me; but I don't believe it yet. Hearing this medical report reminds me that I am very much fallible, and it's frustrating. Another reminder that I can't control how my body processes what I eat. Still, I'm grateful that I don't have a flesh-eating bacteria. It's also easier to accept given my naturally optimistic tendencies. My one glimmer of hope is that this anaemia, which has been longstanding without my knowledge, has been causing other issues that I did not attribute to an actual medical problem such as moodiness and persistently cold extremities. As such, the treatment may bring relief of ailments I didn't even know existed, realized only in their absence. Yes, that is where I will place my focus, because choosing the positive isn't always easy but it is certainly better than feeling sorry for myself. I am no victim, it doesn't suite me; I'm going to take my supplements and use the iron to kick this anaemia in the nuts!