My Crohn's Car
The Conversations
“What is it like?” a group of my friends asked as they walked by my desk during the break with a look in their eyes that resembled sympathy.
“What is what like?” I curiously said, knowing what they were going to say in the back of my head.
“To have your stomach thing,” one of them said. “People at school have been talking about why you always need to use the restroom during lectures.”
“Really? They do?” I responded in question.
“I think a lot of people think you have some stomach virus that spreads around school,” another friend chimed in.
“No, it’s nothing like that. I have Crohn’s Disease,” I told them all with a tone of denial to all of the statements they’ve heard.
“What is a Crohn’s? Is it some sort of parasite?!”
“Oh my god, is it a form of cancer?”
“Is it malignant?”
“Does it hurt a lot? Like a lot lot?”
“What are the symptoms?”
“Is it like...curable?”
“Okay everybody, please calm down. There’s no cancer or parasite or whatever you all just said. It’s a chronic illness that inflames a part of my body.”
“But what’s the experience with it? Is it like a needle poking your stomach?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Oh… is it like the feeling of something burning?”
“Not that either.”
“A stabbing knife through the heart?”
“No… I don’t even know how that feels.”
“So what is it?” Someone who hadn’t spoken asked, and the group grew silent. “What’s it like to live like you?” They walked up to me and looked me up and down.
“I’m not sure if I can just label something that has been affecting me for so many years in a singular word.” I hesitantly said, avoiding eye contact.
“Maybe you can describe it then? Like a scenario or something,” one suggested. “Perhaps Crohn’s is a reflection of an object? Or a thought?”
I considered their words and began brainstorming silently in my head. After a while, something within me sparked.
“I’m not the best at storytelling, but I thought of something,” I offered.
The Start: of the Beginning
When I got my first-ever car, I was ecstatic. All my life I’ve wanted to drive. Whether that be on the local streets and roads or the scary-seeming highway, I knew the moment I was of age, driving would be the first thing I would do. Days of studying for the permit test, practicing for the driving test, and getting my license were my goals as a young teenager. When I passed my test in one go, I was so happy. I was given my parent’s car, which was a rusty 2000s Toyota. Although it was old, it still ran well at the time. As a celebration of getting my license, I gave the car a drive around the city. All was well until life took a turn when I got into my first accident not too long after. From then on, I knew I had to be more careful: two hands on the steering wheel, no radio, and eyes scanning blind spots every few seconds at all times. Though, that’s what I had been doing from the start. Months go by and my car starts to deteriorate. The AC would randomly shut on and off while on the road. Sometimes, I would hear things clink clanging underneath the seat, which I assumed were the gears. There were times when the gas wouldn’t fully pump into the car. I honestly thought this was all normal after my family had this car in possession for over fifteen years. However, I was careful every time. I made sure to do checkups. I made sure to regularly clean the car. I made sure to park it safely and not bump into the curbs. But being careful only takes you so far, right?
The Fallout
On a random Sunday, I was in my room with my headphones jamming to music when all of a sudden I heard this loud “BOOM.” At first, I thought it was my brother who probably fell on the floor. I quickly ran downstairs in a panic. I looked around and spotted my brother; he was completely fine. I saw my Dad and asked what the sound was. He said my car got into an accident except this time, it wasn’t my fault. It was my car. When I opened the front door to see the commotion, I saw my car had been hit by a van and nearly crushed.
My mom and I took my car to our local car mechanic the next day to get it inspected. Although it was crushed, it still looked drivable since the engine was still working. However, things began to break down.
“Hello sir, can I get an inspection for my car please?”
“Sure bud. What’s the problem?”
“This car has been ours for the past fifteen years. Recently, it’s been breaking down: the AC stops working, it takes long to start, the fuel leaks at the bottom, and the seats are ripped. Yesterday, a few drivers got into an accident by the house and hit the car. The backtrunk is damaged, but the engine still runs. We want to know if you guys can help fix the damage and also the issues. It’s one of our only cars you see, so we really need it to work for us.”
“Gotcha,” the mechanic said, squinting at our car as he walked around. “I’ll see what I can do. Let me get some tools, and you can come back tomorrow at 10 am. I’ll give you an update then.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and we left.
As the hours passed by, I grew anxious. I didn’t know what to expect from the results of the inspection. It could be the news I was hoping for or something the opposite. I felt my heart racing as I paced around the house that night and the next day as we drove to the shop. We rolled into the parking lot right on the hour of 10.
“Good morning!” I waved to the mechanic guy we saw yesterday as he walked out to us with a cap, gloves, and a big grey, dusty clipboard clutched beneath his biceps.
“Good morning. I have some news for you and your car,” he said with a not-so-bright tone. “I fear I can’t fix it.”
“What? Why is that? Can’t you tweak the gears and replace some parts of the car?”
“It’s not that simple. I’m not sure what’s exactly wrong with it, but something is messed up within a part. Maybe it’s the engine, the gear, or the tanks? I replaced some of the gears and fixed the back trunk but I can’t seem to find the source of the problem or a definite solution…yet”
“Is it just worn out? If so, can’t we just get it replaced?”
“No. There are parts we don’t have being manufactured anymore, parts we can’t fix, and parts we simply don’t know how to fix.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do sir? Can I still drive it?”
“You can. Don’t expect the car to work in your favor though.”
“Well, I need a car to get myself to school. I don’t want to be another burden to my family again.”
“I understand. I’m sorry to tell you all this. Believe me, I did everything I could,” he responded and began to walk away. “You should feel lucky you’re still alive.” I quickly looked up, and he turned his head towards me. “There are many others out there who have gone through the same except their car breaks down in the middle of the highway, and they don’t make it out.” and he walked away.
During that time, it felt like the whole world came crashing down on me because I couldn’t find a solution. After that, I still took the car to multiple other mechanics, and all of them responded with the same thing: “I’m not sure how to really fix it.” The car would never be fixed. Even though I don’t drive that car anymore and my current car has a working engine, fuel tank, air conditioner, light buttons, and gears, losing something that once was a part of me still hurts.
The Recovery
I think to others, this story may not be of value. Others may question why I can’t just get another car and move on, fix it with my own bare hands, or find ways to work around this problem. However, I don’t think anyone will fully understand what it means to feel what I felt in those moments until they step into my life and become me. There are things in life where there is simply no fix.
“I’m sorry to hear this,” spoke a friend. “You’re right, we don’t know how it feels. I thought damages like yours could be easily repaired.”
“I guess that’s what chronic illness means…” whispered another.
I locked eyes with them for a moment before turning to the window in the room we were in, watching a flock of birds migrating by. “Damages can be easily repaired but never fixed. They remain in you forever. But I didn’t let that get to me. I’ve been fighting hard every day for the past four years,” I said as I stood up from my chair. “The greatest punishment of chronic pain isn’t the pain, it’s the thought of time you have left before the pain takes over you.”
“You’re a strong car, Jason.”
“I try.”
The end: of the start but not the finish.
