My Doctor Cleared Me to Play Survivor... Now What?!

I'm not a particularly adventurous person. (In fact, at least 15 people who know me a little bit probably just snorted into their phones.)

Now, that's not to say that I haven't been brave at times, but that's different. You can be brave and strong on the inside but still have a healthy fear of cheese, for example. Because outside of the usual cheddar, swiss, mozzarella, feta (oooh, feta...), and the occasional blue, I've never felt the urge to go boldly into that realm of fungi without a fair bit of nudging.

I also have an insane sense of smell (bloodhounds and pregnant women have nothing on me) and I can tell you that few things can ruin your appetite like walking past a deli and having the pungent aroma of death sock you in the face. That happened to me once when I worked in the bakery of an Italian grocery store and, at the time, I figured that maybe the seafood department had accidentally left something to congeal in a floor drain. Alas, all that happened was that someone in the deli opened some gnarly cheese. I didn't stop to ask what dish it was destined to ruin.

But back to my disinclination for thrill seeking.

I would be remiss if I didn't briefly revisit middle school. Emmerick Forestall (not his real name, but close) was a major babe and I'm not actually confident that I spoke more than two words to him, like, ever. Nevertheless, his friend approached me one day during a social (like a dance, but more informal), where I was holding up the wall with my friends, and told me that Emmerick wanted to dance with me. Like slow dance. (Honestly, the further I get into this story, the more I wonder if I dreamed it.) Either way, the very idea just about made me pass out from panic. So I ran away and hid somewhere and then cried.

Fast forward to now, and my husband and I recently finished the season of Survivor where we were introduced to the meek and neurotic television writer, David Wright. As we delved deeper into the season, I found myself more and more drawn to David, and not just because he has my dream job. His first few days at camp were actually pretty cringey—he jumped and covered his ears at loud noises, ducked when birds flew overhead, and when Survivor host Jeff Probst asked what his face was doing at the first tribal council, his tribe answered for him: "David is afraid of everything!"

It didn't take long for me to regard this contestant as a kindred spirit, and it was with enormous effort that I didn't meet my husband's eyes when David made what was perhaps his most infamous revelation:

"My whole life, I've had this gigantic fear of death, but over the years, it became something far worse. It... morphed into a fear of life, and it's why I'm here."

If that wasn't going to solidify my casual urge to try out for that show, nothing would. Here was a man who was just as anxious and careful and scared as I've been my whole life. (The wise author Anne Lamott seems to view these things as standard afflictions of writers. For more information, I urge you to read this book.)

And so, several weeks ago, during a routine MS check-up, I asked my neurologist for his blessing to audition for the show. I also asked it in precisely the way my husband beseeched me not to ask it, and the conversation went something like this:

"So, I have a kind of stupid question..." I said.

"Okay, sure."

"Do you watch Survivor?"

Although he was wearing a mask, I thought I saw my doctor cringe slightly—not a great sign.

"Not really, no," he said. "But I know what it's about."

"Well, do you think it would be a... suicide mission... for me to play?"

He furrowed his brow, thinking, which is honestly my favorite thing about him. In eight years, he has never once given me the impression that I'm intruding on his tee time and has regarded every question and concern with thoughtful consideration.

"No, I don't think so," he said.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but this seemed too easy.

"Really?" I said, barely concealing my excitement. "So... I wouldn't do any more damage than anyone else?"

"No, not permanent, anyway," he said. "Although, the heat would still be an issue."

Unfortunately, the heat has always been an issue for me during the summer months. In fact, it got to the point where I enlisted the very same neurologist to help me petition my insurance to pay for a cooling vest. The claim was eventually denied, but now I'm wondering if that's such a bad thing. (Further training for Survivor, perhaps?)

"Probably my only real concern," he said, "And this still probably wouldn't be an absolute deterrent-"

"Infection," I finished, grimacing into my mask.

As a devout germaphobe from an early age, this was something that I had immediately carved into the "cons" column of my "to Survivor or not" list. More importantly, my current MS medication, while wonderfully effective, has an unfortunate side effect of making me more susceptible to infections—not ideal for a competition wherein one tiny cut can turn eight shades of nasty and get you pulled from the game.

Still, my neurologist remained optimistic.

"I'd say go ahead and apply. If they want you on the show and it's an island with lots of parasites, I'll refer you to an infectious disease specialist and we'll go from there as far as any necessary vaccinations and your medication," he said.

"They may want someone like you on the show. Kind of an 'MS-doesn't-define-me' thing."

I swear, if this man ever gives up his profession, I will cry for months.

On the other hand, part of me honestly wonders if doing something so risky (even for someone without a chronic illness) is basically the equivalent of kicking my good fortune in the face? Because I am so very fortunate—not only because I have the "good kind" of MS (relapsing-remitting, as opposed to something progressive) for now, but also because we caught it relatively early, and in an age where there have been numerous advances and improvements surrounding MS research and treatments. Then again... I've been careful my whole life, and I still ended up with MS.

Needless to say, I left my neurologist's office with a gigantic smile on my face. I wasn't really expecting such an unencumbered green light for what had formerly been a pipe dream, and as an added bonus, my doctor seemed genuinely interested in the idea (and dare I say impressed?).

"Huh," he said before he left the exam room, looking thoughtful again. "I may have to start watching Survivor."

Of course, I couldn't stop myself from gushingly recommending Season 28, "Survivor: Cagayan," which is currently on Netflix (per the date of this posting) and one of my favorites. I also obviously have a soft spot for Season 33, "Survivor: Millenials vs. Gen X," thanks to David and several other stellar contestants.

So, now, I am faced with a pros and cons list of epic proportions. And I must say, this is one of those times that I truly envy the male species, as many of the cons are directly related to the logistics of being a woman on an island for up to 39 days.

But I won't get into that yet. Because for now, it's just really, really awesome to feel like I've been given permission to live a little.

<3