By: Zainab Salam, Editor-in-Chief
After years of dormancy, a few months ago, with strong encouragement from important people in my life, I went out on a date. As wonderful as dating can be for some, it feels so exhausting that I seldom do. Dating is an uncomfortable terrain — where one has to scour for a possible partner through ill-fitted matches and awkward silences. I’m a private person with a penchant for contemplative conversations and a desire to spend time with people that plan on staying. The idea of sharing a drink or a meal with a stranger hoping to hit it off doesn’t seem sufficient enough to incentivize me to arrange a date. I’ve reached a point in my life where my focus is expanding beyond my personal achievement to my interpersonal relationships; specifically the romantic part of my life. After awkward introductions to guys I barely know by family friends at events, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I bit the bullet and downloaded a dating app. After creating a profile I began swiping right and left on a diverse range of men: what had quickly made itself known is the sense of exasperation that stems from having a chronic illness. This wasn’t a thing I had to deal with prior to my early 20s. A few years ago, I began to deal with various health issues. My health issues started with a kidney stone that led me into an operation room, and it still causes chronic pain, fatigue, and recurring kidney stones. This made my ability to go through bad dates wane into null. Although it hasn’t rendered my desire for a partnership to decrease; I still experience a yearning for a healthy and balanced romantic partnership.
However, considering that my disability is not visible to others, without my explicit declaration, none would be the wiser. While this places me in an incredibly privileged situation, I’m often left privy to people’s ableist tendencies, thoughts, and actions — all to varying degrees. I hear the ableist language people spew when they think no disabled person is around in social gatherings. I sustain the judgment that people have towards me when I’m late for meetings or appear to be dazed because they assume I’m able-bodied.
The same day I began swiping on a dating app, I matched with a man, and planned a coffee date. An hour into the date, he asked for us to go on a walk. It was at this point that I thought to notify him of what everyone who would dare to promenade with me should know: I deal with chronic pain that can worsen with walks. I also tend to flare up when the weather is chilly, which it had been. He asked numerous questions about my condition, and I answered. With this newfound knowledge about me, we still went on that walk.
Outside the ordinary flow of conversation, I found myself at a mental standstill. After that date ended, and my flare up began as I had anticipated, I reflected on my drive back home. In my car, which usually blares music in a volume that could only harm the ears, I drove in complete silence. The 20 minute drive back home had collapsed all of my fears and anxieties about the feasibility of ever finding a partner into what felt like a weight on my chest. All I kept thinking about is how even with my explanation, which required me to be vulnerable and to share something private, he didn’t understand how chronic pain isn’t like regular pain.
It might’ve been us lost in translation, or maybe I hadn’t advocated for myself enough. All I had thought about at that moment is I could’ve not disclosed my disability, and it wouldn’t have changed much.
As I mull this incident over, my chronic illness helps me weed out those who don’t actually care about me — in both platonic and romantic senses. If it weren’t for this interaction, I might’ve thought he was a kind person who I might’ve given a chance beyond that coffee date. But my chronic illness brought our incompatibilities to the surface by showcasing his inability to understand my situation. My chronic illness helps me see whether I want someone in my life fairly quickly.
When it comes to my relationships, whether romantic or platonic, I can quickly discern how they view me and how much they care about me. I know who my real friends are because they are the ones who check up on me regularly, and stop to sit on a bench when we’re on an outing. And they do that without making me feel like a burden. This is not always the experience that I have with people. There have been many times where advocacy seems futile, because I would share my condition with someone, and it goes uncared for.
In the past I have developed crushes on individuals, and found out very quickly that my disability would not be accommodated in a connection. It’s difficult every time, because it’s hard to not feel rejected. However, who even wants a partner who doesn’t care about them, anyway?
With high standards for a loving partner, I find myself quite frequently having to ask if it’s even possible to find love when dealing with chronic illness. Especially that I have not had any luck in finding my person since my chronic illness attacked me with full force a few years ago. Considering my age, I have lived a significant portion of my adult life without romance, and I’m OK with that. But as the years go by, and my romantic life remains untapped, the prospect appears as a phantom that continuously grows more faint.
In a passing conversation with a classmate a few years ago — before I had fully known or even accepted that I was chronically ill — the topic of having a chronically ill spouse came up. As a person who grew up with countless loving partnerships around me, I have always known that the key to a happy life is understanding that loving someone comes with understanding that one’s partner’s well-being is just as important as one’s own. I grew up with a lovely grandfather who made my grandmother breakfast in bed every morning, while she made him his tea the way he liked it. He took care of her when she had migraines, and she took care of him when his diabetes caused health complications.
This, for whatever reason, wasn’t the perspective that my classmate held. She spoke of how she would find her spouse’s illness unattractive. How she would still be his wife, but she wouldn’t take care of him if necessary, because she wouldn’t see him the same way.
That conversation lives rent free in my head everytime I flare up and find myself in need of another person’s help. I logically know someone who truly loves me wouldn’t view any signs of vulnerability in a negative manner; I know I don’t and never will. And I know that those who love me don’t see me any different than they used to before. However, this doesn’t stop the association of the lack of a romantic relationship from my life to me being chronically ill.
As painful as it is to ache for love, it would be far more painful to be in the wrong relationship.
