Christmas Lights in July
Six weeks ago, I found everything in my life coming to a sudden halt. There I was, 14 days into celebrating 29 years of living, with some of the greatest moments of my life under my belt. I’d finally established a steady rhythm, settling into a space where I’d carefully planted a deep sense of connection within myself. I’d uncovered new pathways to understanding the world around me, as well as the people in it. I was taking part in what brought my heart joy, was reconnecting with my greatest passions, I’d even been lucky enough to find love. For the first time in my life, I felt whole, and I didn’t see the slightest possibility in that changing.
What I didn’t know at the time, was that I was sick, very sick. All I knew then, was that canceling on friends because I was having a “pain day” wasn’t exactly normal, but I didn’t have answers. I was well aware that when I fell ill, the severity of my symptoms scared me, but I couldn’t tell you what was happening or why. I was very conscious that being laid out on my bathroom floor for hours at a time, not having the strength to get up, wondering if this was it for me, wasn’t exactly common. I’d be foolish to say that I wasn’t the one who’d been suffering for years, wondering what the hell was going on, wondering how many more doctors visits, specialists, blood work, stool samples, X-rays, and MRI’s I could possibly put up with. Truth be told, I was just too tired to search for answers anymore. So I packed up two years worth of paperwork, placed them inside a folder labeled “health”, tucked them away in my filing cabinet, and moved on with my life.
That’s when six weeks ago happened. I found myself sitting at the edge of a seat, on top of a thin strip of paper that crumpled and moved every time I readjusted my weight, attempting to find comfort in the still of a doctor’s office. Trying not to stare at the screen that should’ve shown a black and gray image of my thyroid, instead “lighting up like a Christmas tree”, wondering why a doctor would ever make a connection between health and Christmas lights. “An autoimmune disease…”, she answered, the small room surrounding me beginning to go hazy, “…your numbers are off the charts.” Suddenly unable to make out the words leaving my doctor’s mouth. Something about starting medication straight away, something about my body attacking itself for no apparent reason, something about taking medication for the rest of my life, something about an immediate appointment with radiology, something about a very risky surgery.
It wasn’t until I’d reached my car, collapsing into the driver seat, closing the door behind me, a moment of complete silence, and then the sudden flood of tears rushing down my face… realizing that 42 days ago, there were only symptoms. Now, with diagnosis in hand, everything felt so undeniably real. Except this time, “real” wasn’t feeling connected, “real” wasn’t being sure of my future, “real” wasn’t feeling deeply rooted within myself. It was as if a new chapter was being written without my consent, and only the author knew the outcome. Whether this would be an end or a new beginning, I wasn’t sure. Uncertainty, followed by a sudden rushing current that I had no control over, snatching me by the waist and sucking me under. A darkness and stillness that I’d long forgotten, taking root in my heart. Pulling me down, “your body is attacking itself”, down, “you’re ill”, down, “you’ll need to have surgery…” I continued to sink, helpless, limp in the still quiet of the night. Immobilized in a twilight zone of gloom and helplessness. No sign of hope, only darkness. Caught in a current that pulled me far away from the person I was before.
It wasn’t until the sixth week that a twitch of faith sparked, followed by a glimmer of inner strength. After one month and two weeks, a long list of unanswered phone calls from radiology, voicemails from the endocrinologist, notices in the mail… I found myself staring down at the diagnosis between my hands, feeling only remnants and fragments from 42 days ago. The sorrow is lifting, and I can feel a new day is rising. I no longer feel the dull, distant thump of my heartbeat, the restlessness, or the anxious buzz in my head. Carefully erasing the pages written by specialists of little hope, ridding my story of endless lists of ill health. Tucking away the new results into the drawer of my filing cabinet, I decide to walk away from what has been holding my body and mind hostage for too long. Health starts now, but I won’t be finding it in the cold hallways of doctor’s offices, because health isn’t inside a radioactive pill. Health doesn’t follow a risky surgery, health isn’t connected to taking medication for the rest of my life. Saying no, walking away, closing that door. Making my choice, standing firm in what I believe. Today, I take back my health, I take back my strength. I am the author of my story, and I sure as hell won’t be going out without a fight.
