I recently read Thomas Mann’s 1924 classic, The Magic Mountain, which tells the story of a young German man’s prolonged stay at an international sanitorium at the turn of the 20th Century. The sanitorium is located high up in the Swiss Alps: a beautiful setting that boasts fresh, clear air and peace of mind. It got me thinking how much I’d like a Magic Mountain to which I could retreat during the summer, in particular, and forgo the insufferable heat and humidity of the flatlands for a relaxing sojourn in a cool place.
Despite the much-welcome quiet afforded by my new home in Southern Vermont, the climate here is virtually the same as it was in Connecticut, give or take a few degrees. The rainiest Vermont spring on record gave way to a brutally hot and humid summer, which has had a profound impact on my physical health. I suffer from a form of dysautonomia called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), which, among a host of other unpleasant symptoms–brain fog, dizziness, blurry vision, nausea–causes me to be extremely intolerant of the heat.
I first noticed this intolerance two summers ago. During the previous summer, I’d frequented a local rail trail to bike for two or three hours at a time, and though these expeditions had been sweaty and challenging, I’d managed all right in the heat. That summer, however, I made it to the trail only a handful of times, and upon each return had to spend the rest of the day recovering in bed. Naturally, my eco-anxious mind leaped to the conclusion that the extreme discomfort I was experiencing was the result of the rapidly warming climate; but while the record-high temperatures of the last few summers are undoubtedly the consequence of global warming, there was another factor at play, one almost as insidious and pernicious as the greenhouse gases polluting Earth: chronic illness.
If the summer of 2023 served as the inciting incident, and the year that followed the rising action, then the climax, the point in my ongoing health saga when everything came to a head, arrived like an unwelcome visitor last summer. In retrospect, it seems likely that the sudden decline in my physical health was triggered by the warmer weather, which pushed my weakened body into a multi-monthly flare of pain, fatigue, and lightheadedness. After all, I’ve experienced a similar regression this summer, and though I’m able to function somewhat better than I was a year ago, this is largely due to knowing more about my conditions and what steps I can take to manage them.
For instance, I know now that if I leave my house on an eighty-plus-degree day, the exposure to the outdoors, no matter how brief, will drain my energy and make it difficult to work; thus, I usually opt to remain in the solitary coolness of my basement apartment so that I can write. Likewise, I know that staying on top of my water and sodium intake is crucial to mitigating lightheadedness and fatigue, as is adequately nourishing myself. The latter, as I wrote about in a previous post, has been an ongoing challenge due to my gastroparesis–and the fact that heat and humidity further suppress appetite. Gradually, however, I’m getting better at avoiding flares as well as sticking with the foods that work for my sensitive stomach (though I dearly miss garden-fresh salads, watermelon, and corn on the cob!).
So too am I improving at pacing, which involves balancing activity with rest to preserve energy. This can be especially difficult on the days when I feel better and am eager to make up for “lost time.” Past experience has and is continuing to teach me that to yield to my desire to do, do, do will inevitably end with me in bed the following day, riddled with pain and regret; rather than heedlessly fulfill every item on my to-do list, it’s in the best interest of my health to pick two or three and alternate them with my restful activities: listening to audiobooks, working on puzzles, observing the wildlife in my backyard, or cuddling with my cat, Chibi, who’s currently recovering from major oral surgery.
I used to measure my productivity in how many words I was able to write in a given day; periods of leisure or inactivity, which now comprise a large part of my days, were indicative of laziness and failure in my overachieving mind. Changing my mindset to regard rest as actually extremely productive, in that it recharges my batteries so that I can have energy to write later on, has been a piecemeal process, and though I miss being able to pound out two thousand words at a time, I’m beginning to recognize the manic nature of my old ways as well as the value in a more balanced existence, one which views productivity not only in production but also in self-care, good literature, meaningful human interaction, and the likes.
Not that I’d call my present existence “balanced,” per se; in recent months, and in spite of surprisingly good mental health, I’ve felt extremely limited by my conditions and the hot weather, yearning for coolness and mental clarity as I struggle to function amid the haze in my head and pain in my joints. It’s difficult not to feel frustrated with my situation, nor with humanity’s collective failure to take preventive action against climate change so that my generation, as well as those to come, wouldn’t have to grow up in a world in which scorching-hot summers are the norm.
Yet being angry will change neither the state of ecology nor that of my body. In the words of Viktor Frankl, author of the profoundly moving Man’s Search for Meaning, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” It is this acceptance, this adaptation, that I’m trying to channel as I once again find myself homebound for the next few days, concentrating my energy not on all that I can’t control but what I can, as well as what I have rather than what I’m lacking: a comfortable, cool house; a supportive family; a rich inner world and strong, resilient spirit; a plethora of great audiobooks (thanks, LibriVox!). And who knows, maybe next year I’ll find my Magic Mountain and reclaim some of my former enjoyment of summer.