Amelia Hill lives her life in relative isolation and would love nothing more than to be outdoors. Source: ThinkStock
CAN you be allergic to the 21st century? This is Amelia Hill's reality — and she has to take some pretty drastic action to survive.
For almost five years, I've lived in one single room, stripped of all possessions — apart from a fold-out bed that doesn't even have a mattress.
Yes, you read that right: one room for five years!
My family and friends can only speak to me through a glass wall; I eat the same six foods on rotation; and can wear just one outfit.
I'm not in prison and this isn't some kind of Big Brother social experiment. I have a condition called multiple chemical sensitivity (MCS), as well as electromagnetic hypersensitivity (EHS).
This means I'm intolerant to an endless list of everyday items, including fragrances, fabrics, plastics, cleaning products, computers and wi-fi technology.
Minimal exposure can cause a life-threatening allergic reaction — my airway swells, I can't breathe and feel like I've overdosed on sedatives.
You could say that I'm allergic to the 21st century.
The only way for me to survive and have any quality of life is to seal myself off from my friends, family and the outside world.
I am now 38, but my symptoms began when I was 15, though they became more severe as I got older.
At school I was always exhausted and short of breath, but every blood test came back negative and the doctor said I was either a hypochondriac or suffering from a form of glandular fever and should get better over time.
Amelia Hill literally lives life in a bubble. Picture: Jodi Nash Source: Supplied
For a while I did seem to improve, or I just became better at hiding my symptoms.
After high school I began a career as a fashion stylist and, throughout my twenties, to the outside world I was living the dream, working for magazines and running my own fashion label.
But I was plagued by tiredness, nausea, breathlessness and unexplained pain.
I hid my symptoms from everyone but my mother, as I didn't want my friends to pity me.
I was totally in denial, but as the years passed I had a strange sensation that I was sliding down a dark tunnel, trying to grab at slippery walls.
Then, shortly after my 33rd birthday, my body literally gave up overnight. I remember the day before; I'd been running around the city picking up clothes and furniture for a photo shoot. When I woke up the next morning, I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.
At the time I was living alone in a flat in Adelaide and somehow managed to call my mother, whispering down the phone that I needed help.
I was admitted to hospital, where, for the next few weeks, every blood test and X-ray once again came back negative and I seemed to get worse by the day.
I don't blame the doctors for not diagnosing me. There is very little education about MCS in the medical profession, despite the fact it's more common than you'd imagine.
Unbeknown to anyone, being in hospital was actually making me sicker because I was surrounded by technology and chemicals.
My sense of smell skyrocketed, my airway burned and my weight plummeted.
My doctors talked about nursing homes, but instead I discharged myself and moved back into my old apartment, determined that it wasn't the end.
Ms Hill has an extreme reaction to all things chemical and lives life in a bubble. Source: ThinkStock
My mum and step-dad, who lived 10 minutes away, barely left my side — and for that I'm forever grateful, as I was unable to wash or feed myself.
Over the next 18 months, we sought help from over a hundred medical specialists and alternative healers, putting my broken body through blood tests, spinal taps, yoga poses and juice fasts, with no improvement.
Then one night, a year and a half after I was first admitted to hospital, I was alone in my apartment and turned on the television, as I was desperate for distraction.
The reality show The Bachelorette was on and one of the contestants was talking about his struggle with multiple chemical sensitivity.
It was the first time I'd heard anyone else list my symptoms.
Within a fortnight I had tracked down the contestant's sister online and booked a Skype consultation with his American-based doctor, who diagnosed me after one conversation.
I finally had a name for my condition, but it brought mixed feelings, as I also discovered that MCS has few avenues of treatment and even fewer stories of recovery.
The best chance I had seemed to be limiting my exposure to any product or chemical my body was sensitive to.
It wouldn't be a cure, but would hopefully allow my health to plateau rather than nosedive.
In online forums where other MCS sufferers shared their stories, many talked about the concept of a 'safe room'.
It was my mother who suggested we strip their living room and basically seal me in.
I was heartbroken the day I had to leave my apartment and put all of my things into storage, including my clothes, my photographs and every trinket that reminded me of happier times.
I'll never forget my mum's living-room door closing behind me as my world suddenly shrank to a 2m square.
For the first 18 months in my safe room, I was so sick that I didn't even have the energy to be bored. But it must have been terrible for my mother, who was the only person allowed to cross my boundary, to wash me using a basin of faltered water and empty the bucket that served as my toilet.
The living room has a sliding glass door that connects it to the dining room, so friends stand on the other side, chatting as if I was in a fishbowl.
Gadgets, wi-fi and most technology is a no-go zone. Source: AFP
I was grateful for these visits and they tried to lift my spirits, even throwing me a birthday party on the other side of the glass, but I was still plagued by depression and anxiety.
Who could blame me?
At that point, my sensitivity to electricity meant that I couldn't speak on the phone, have a television near me or use the internet.
I spent most evenings in the dark because switching on the light worsened my condition. I also couldn't tolerate a mattress or a blanket, even if they were made of natural fibres, so I slept on a pile of cotton sheets with two stainless-steel water bottles filled with hot water to keep me warm.
My entire wardrobe consisted of an old pink jumper and one pair of thermal leggings, which I knew I didn't react badly to.
My old life as a stylist seemed like a distant memory, when I would spend my days surrounded by beauty, colour and fabulousness.
There were days when giving up seemed like an option. But in 2011, three years after entering the safe room, I decided I had to find a way to stay positive and count my blessings.
It may not appear that way, but I have a lot to be thankful for, because my solitary confinement does appear to be working.
A few years ago I couldn't lift my head from the pillow, but now I'm walking, chatting and my appetite has returned.
I've learnt to embrace small milestones, which are actually major achievements. I am now sometimes able to walk from my safe room to the bathroom down the hallway, which has been stripped of all products, perfumes and chemicals.
In August, for the first time in five years, I was able to warm up my own lunch on a portable hotplate.
To control my symptoms I follow a rotation diet, which means I eat only six core foods that I know don't harm me.
For breakfast I have mashed banana, for lunch pureed pumpkin and then a choice of lentils, tuna, carrot or chickpeas.
It's a pretty bleak diet for a foodie like me, but it's better than my throat closing over.
The biggest breakthrough came when I actually stepped outside!
OK, it was in my parents' driveway and only for two minutes, but I couldn't wipe the smile off my face as Mum took photographs to commemorate the moment.
We are currently in the process of building a safe pod in my mum's back garden. It's a glorified shed made from iron and other materials that don't affect me, but will have a living room, bedroom and a basic kitchen so I'll be independent.
An important part of my coping mechanism is meditation and positive visualisation. I can now use a computer for short periods of time and on Facebook I've started the hashtag #futureselffridays, where I post imaginary status updates of where I'd like to be: "In New York, going to walk my favourite stretch of Central Park, drinking in the soft dappled light and the breeze."
I've always been a hopeless romantic, so my future self also has a hot husband! The hardest part of surviving like this is the lack of human contact, and I can't imagine living without it forever. While I'm a realist and know a cure may never be found, I also haven't given up on my fairytale ending.
I hope my story inspires people to seize the day and realise how resilient they can be. I may be confined to four stark walls, but I'll never stop thinking outside the box.
Follow Heal Amelia's Life on Facebook.
Follow Amy on Twitter and instagram @amy_molloy
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