The Invisible Doomsday Clock

“Wait, I have a what?”

“A blood clot. Three of them, actually. You can see them there, and there.”

The tech points to both of my legs on a Doppler ultrasound, showing the blood flow halted and pooling. A Deep Vein Thrombosis and two superficial thrombi, one of which was already trying to heal itself. The kind of things you only hear about on commercials featuring medications with smiling older people completely not freaking out that they’re a ticking time bomb.

And I didn’t feel a thing.

I have a lot of different medical problems, or as I like to tell people when giving the laundry list of different conditions and diagnoses, “I’m really fun.”

Fibromyalgia. I was diagnosed when I was 10, before most doctors, let alone pediatricians, knew what is was, and definitely before medications were developed.

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, developed by contracting Parvovirus B19 during the second season of shooting “Squaresville,” which makes for a fun game of “which systemic chronic illness is flaring today?”

Chronic hip, knee, and back problems since I was eight.

Depression and anxiety as far as I can remember.

A suppressed immune system caused by multiple infections and surgeries — so I’m susceptible to literally any bug that explodes into weeks-long bronchitis and flu.

Pneumonia, a couple of times.

Painful and irregular menstrual cycles that would cause cramps to be so debilitating, I would have to cancel my life for a few days (until I got my IUD years later).

Like I said, I’m really fun. So it never occurred to me that after a surgery where I was bed-bound for almost two months, followed by a convention appearance and then flying to my childhood best friend’s wedding, that my souvenir for visiting Seattle and signing autographs would be three little jackasses clogging up my veins and trying to kill me.

I had been on blood clot prevention while recovering from surgery multiple times before, taking these horrible injections that hurt so badly I would scream. I thought that was all good and chill, especially since I completed my doses and I was off living life again. So when I got back from Seattle and noticed my feet and calves were swollen to the point where I couldn’t wear my boots, I thought it was just water retention from the flight. That happens when I travel, nothing a quick cardio session can’t sweat out.

But I also started feeling more tired. I figured that was still my body healing itself from the major surgery I had two months prior. Weeks went on and I went to SoulCycle 5 times a week, plus Pilates and yoga, with the same old fibro and chronic fatigue syndrome symptoms, but now with a more puzzling symptom that my feet were in a perpetual state of seeming like they belonged to a giant troll. No one knew what it was. I was told it might be lymphedema, where my lymph nodes were compromised post-surgery. So I did lymphatic treatments that cost a fortune and did not help at all. Finally, six months post-operation, I went in for a blood test, and another doctor asked me if I was feeling okay. I said all I felt was tired and my feet were a little swollen, but that was it.

I don’t know if it was the fact I looked like a ghost or that she saw my Shrek-like feet, but she said, “I want you to get a Doppler ultrasound of your legs. Just to rule out things like a blood clot. I doubt you have one, but let’s check.”

So I made the first scan appointment the following week, the beginning of December, thinking literally nothing of it. I took my mom, who was a former ultrasound and X-Ray technician and pharmaceutical sales rep, so she could translate Medical into English for me.

When the tech told me I had three blood clots, he said, “You’re lucky you’re alive, I can’t believe one of them is already trying to heal itself.” And I was just…numb. I had the kind of thing that you don’t have at 26. They warn you on planes and if you’ve been in car rides that DVT IS THE DEVIL AND YOU MUST AVOID DANGER. But I, having already lived through medical inconveniences and nightmares, thought I was invincible, especially when I never had any symptoms besides being tired and having swollen feet.

I went to hematologists, genetic testing, numerous doctors, had enough blood drawn that I think there is a zombie version of me out there somewhere, and was put on Xarelto, which I hope you never have to take. On the verge of pilot season, the four month round of treatment forced me to stop taking my pain meds, which managed my fibro and my chronic fatigue (due to drug interaction). So I was in excruciating joint and nerve pain.

My long hair, which was already ravaged by surgeries and illnesses, began to fall out. I lost an inch of hairline and my hair thinned so badly, I had to cut it all off six months later. I couldn’t get out of bed due to fatigue, and I still have to apologize to anyone who spoke to me those four months because I had the worst brain fog I’ve ever had. I tripped over my words, I lost my train of thought, I could barely speak in public without feeling like a prize idiot. Meanwhile, it was pilot season, and I was testing for pilots while taking my blood thinners. So it took all the mental and physical energy I had to go from audition, to meeting, to test without showing any physical or mental effort. Oh, and did I mention there was no antidote in case I bled out, since Xarelto was so new on the market that they hadn’t figured out how to stop it? Yeah, really fun.

Not only did I have an invisible illness, but I had to hide it the entire time.

My friends know me as the life of the party. So when I slowed and stopped drinking for the most part, they raised some eyebrows. But because it was an incredibly busy season that year (of which I still didn’t get cast on anything, to add insult to injury), they didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t going as fast in my SoulCycle classes, if I even stayed out of the saddle long enough, and I had to cancel working out a lot of the time. Even though I wasn’t on Warfarin, where I would’ve had a stricter diet, I was told I needed to watch my vitamin K intake, which meant farewell delicious salads and green juices. The side effects were miserable, and pilot season was kicking my ass, so I broke down. I begged my doctor for another scan before going off to a music festival, and when I got the all clear, I cried for thirty minutes. Once my last dose stopped nine hours later, I drank half a bottle of wine and packed up my car for the next morning to drive.

Years have gone by and I still have to constantly get tested, and I always fear when my calves are even a little swollen that it’s come back. I have to have five doctors sign off on any procedure now because of my DVT history, and I can’t take a lot of medications because of it. And yet, you wouldn’t have known I was at risk of dying at 26.