Tag: chronic illness

Questions and Answers: Chapter 5

Now that the weekend was winding down, it was time to snap back to reality. My butt demanded it. While I had had fun at the party, it couldn’t distract me from the pain for very long. The day had taken its toll on me. I had given my all, and I was spent. Exhaustion trickled into the next day, making getting out of bed in the morning a struggle. The plan for the family was to wake up early to clean up the remaining evidence of the party. With a little teamwork, the task would be done in no time. As soon as I came downstairs, unenthused, but ready to be part of the clean-up crew, my mom ushered me over to the couch. “Why don’t you lay down and get comfortable?” She suggested. I insisted I was fine to help clean, but I knew I was arguing a losing battle. “I’ll go get your pillows and blanket, and we’ll get you set up on the couch,” she called over her shoulder, already halfway up the stairs.  Resigned to the fact that there was no point in arguing with her, I waited patiently for her to return. As I waited, I noticed how I favored my right side and how badly it hurt just simply standing there. I literally wasn’t doing anything and the pain still throbbed unremittingly. It was only nine in the morning, I had just woken up, and already I felt like I could have easily gone back to sleep for another 6 hours. Allowing myself to acknowledge that maybe resting wasn’t the worst idea, I took the blankets from my mom and put together a bed on the couch.

No sooner had my mom tucked me in (I told you, she’s SUCH a mom) that I became restless and frustrated being stuck on the couch. I wasn’t used to laying around while everyone worked around me, it was a feeling I definitely didn’t like. I felt like I was being lazy while everyone else busted their butts. Overcome with guilt, I got up and hobbled to the laundry room to get the window cleaner. If the family was cleaning the house, I should be helping, too. Wandering back into the family room, I was met with fury by my mother. “What do you think you’re doing?” She scolded. I shrugged, and my hands full of cleaning supplies revealed my motive. “I just wanted to help,” I replied. My mom was insistent that I return to my spot on the couch, and reluctantly, I agreed. I hated every minute of it. Not that I like cleaning the house or anything (ugh, I hate it), but I hated the idea of laying around while the rest of my family was hard at work even more. It just didn’t feel right.

Unable to sway my mom, I reluctantly gave in to the pain and settled in on the couch, doing anything I could to take the pressure away from the right side. Even though I wanted to help, if I was being honest, I was in a lot of pain. I was willing to do anything that would make me feel better, even if it meant resting when I needed to. This concept was totally foreign to me. Before getting sick, I never used to nap or rest during the day. I would typically wake up early, hit the ground running, and power through the day, always accomplishing an impressive to-do list. I considered myself a go-getter, someone ambitious, who likes to bite off a smidgen more than she can chew. I thrive like that. Or, at least I used to. But now, even something as simple as taking a shower was enough to knock me on my ass, leaving me exhausted and passed out on the bed, still soaking wet and wrapped in a towel. Being in such constant pain had really taken a lot out of me. I could feel the difference; my energy was drained, and I just didn’t feel like myself. My spark was gone. It was clear that being sick and in pain had become my full-time job. It was an exhausting gig that usually left me passed out on the couch, unable to move without wincing.

Thanks to the pain meds I was on, I quickly fell asleep on the couch waiting for my family to finish cleaning. It didn’t take them long before they all came to join me in the living room. They did their best to keep me company, but I wasn’t much fun to be around, I was too out of it. I spent most of the day zonked out on the couch, drifting between periods of daunting, drug-induced dreams, hazy conversations with my family, and blurry snippets of tv shows. Snuggled in a bundle of blankets on the couch, I tried to move as little as possible once I had found a somewhat comfortable position. But really, no matter what I did, the pain was unyielding. Regardless of how I situated myself, I could always feel the throbbing pressure that indicated that the abscess had returned. I was miserable. I was frustrated. I was worried. And I couldn’t wait for the day to be over.

Laying on the couch thinking about the events of tomorrow, I felt distraught and conflicted. On one hand, I was overwhelmed with anxiety about having to have another surgery. Just the thought of it made my stomach tense into a tight knot. I hated getting stabbed with needles, blacking out from the anesthesia, then feeling nauseous for the next three days. But, on the other hand, I was in so much pain, I was almost looking forward to having surgery. If it meant I would start feeling better, I was willing to do anything, even face my biggest fears. It was a weird, paradoxical experience to feel both dread and anticipation at the same time. Drowsy on the couch, I drifted in and out of slumber. Whenever I woke for longer than a few minutes, I was consumed with anxiety over my impending surgery. It felt like that was all I could think about. My family, trying to keep my mind off of the surgery, tried to distract me with a solid Harry Potter movie marathon. Even though I always enjoy watching HP & Co. battle Voldy, even that wasn’t enough to keep my mind off of what lay ahead.

Reasoning that sleep was probably the best option since I wouldn’t be up worrying, I ate an early dinner, then went to bed. Lying in bed tossing and turning, I thought about how badly I just wanted it to be over already. I begged myself to fall asleep, and it must have worked because the next thing I knew, it was Monday morning and I was being taken to the hospital. The surgery was quick, but not painless. Once again, I had surgery to drain the abscess that refused to heal. And again, it hurt like hell. Afterward, I could hardly move without being in excruciating pain. My stomach heaved whenever I moved too much and caused a spike in pain, so I had to move very slowly and deliberately. After surgery, I returned home to try to rest and recover. By this point, my family and I were frustrated with the relentless pattern we seemed to be in. I couldn’t break free from this incessant struggle, and I was getting scared. It was getting to be a little ridiculous having surgery every few weeks. I hoped this time would be the last time I would need surgery, but if history was any indicator, I was reluctant to get my hopes up. We voiced our concern to the surgeon who had been working on me, and this time instead of insisting it would be the last time having surgery, he explained that it was really time for us to find a Gastroenterologist, who would be able to better explain to us what was happening. He explained that since I had Crohn’s, it made the case of my abscess more complicated than a “normal” person, and we really needed to see a specialist to get some answers. He gave us a few names of GI doctors to try and sent us on our way.

Feeling at our wit’s end, my mom and I took the names and instantly began our search to find a GI doctor. We desperately hoped that a specialized doctor would be able to shed some light on the situation and reassure us that everything was going to be okay. My mom and I started at the beginning of the list and quickly worked our way through it. As it turns out, the names the surgeon suggested were of no help. With this list, we discovered GI doctors who just weren’t right for us– not enough experience, rude bedside manner, limited availability, unreliable nurse/secretary, etc. We were beyond frustrated and worried we would never find the right doctor when a google search led us to a GI specialist about an hour and a half away from our house. He had decent reviews, so we decided to give him a shot. Feeling more than a little desperate, we called and set up a new patient appointment for as soon as possible, and they were able to squeeze me in right away. For the first time, we felt hopeful that we may get some real answers and start the healing process.

Before meeting with the doctor, my mom and I put together a list of questions. On a loose-leaf sheet of paper, we started a bullet point list of all our worries. First and foremost, we wanted an explanation of what was happening to me. We wanted to understand what exactly caused the abscess, where it was located, how we could treat it, and how long it would take to treat. Our other questions wondered if I would have to start taking medication, if diet affected my condition, if there were any holistic practices that would improve my symptoms, and if I would need to continue having surgery every few weeks.

Driving an hour and a half to meet my new Doctor, we sat in silence most of the way. We were both too nervous to make small talk. Once we got a little closer, we went over our questions and added any last-minute ones to the list. We wanted to make sure the Doctor answered all of our questions. When we finally arrived at the Doctor’s office, my mom turned the car off and we both sat in silence for a full minute before we finally gathered the courage to open the car door and walk inside. We were both terrified of what this Doctor would have to say. Once inside, we were met by a receptionist who could not have been bothered to acknowledge the two people who just walked into her empty office. Not a great first impression. After checking in with the unfriendly receptionist, she led us to the back of the office to prepare me to meet the Doctor. She stopped and took my height and weight, then led me into a waiting room. It was then that I realized that this unpleasant receptionist was also the nurse. She took my vitals, briefly went over my symptoms and the “what brought you in today” questions, and left the room. My mom and I immediately looked at each other and exchanged remarks, “well, I sure hope the Doctor is a little friendlier than she was,” my mom said. I nodded in agreement but said nothing. I felt like if I opened my mouth I would throw up. In a time like this, with both of us so unsure and scared, the last thing we needed was a rough, rude doctor or nurse. We were a little fragile, and we desperately needed kindness and compassion.

I sat on the examination table, swinging my legs, and zoning out. My mouth was dry, my hands were sweating, and I had a pit in my stomach. I tried not to think of the terrible things the Doctor could tell me. My mom, just as nervous as I was, tried to lighten the mood and make small talk. I can’t remember if I responded or not as suddenly there was a sharp knock and the door swung in. The Doctor entered and shook my hand. He introduced himself, then asked what brought me in today. I was pleased to note that not only did he seem knowledgeable and experienced, he was also compassionate, which was important to me since I was so nervous about everything that was happening to me. I explained that I was having severe pain in my butt on the right side and that I had gone to the ER and found an abscess. I continued on, explaining that I had had multiple surgeries already to drain the abscess, but it kept returning. I finished by practically begging the Doctor to explain to me what was happening. Never once during my explanation did he rush me, which I appreciated. After hearing everything I had said, the Doctor explained that I would need to undergo a CT scan so we could see what exactly was going on inside. After that, we could talk about medication and a treatment plan.

The wait for the results lasted forever. When they were finally in, I went back to see my GI doctor to go over the findings. They were as I suspected. The scans showed that I had an abscess about the size of a golf ball located in the Supralevator muscle, which isn’t healing properly because I have Crohn’s Disease. Okayyy? But what does that mean? What do we do about it? How do I get back to normal? Please, FIX ME! To my relief, the doctor reassured me that he would help get me back on track and that he had a treatment plan he was confident would work. To begin, he explained that I would have to get started on some serious medication. I would immediately start a regimen of budesonide, ciprofloxacin, Flagyl, and azathioprine. This would work as a steroid to reduce the inflammation, antibiotics to fight infection and another anti-inflammatory. In addition, I would also be having surgery again, this time to drain the abscess and place a seton. The seton would essentially be a looped piece of plastic that would work to keep the abscess open and draining, giving it a chance to heal instead of closing back up like it had been doing. Relieved that we actually had a game plan, I scheduled the surgery and prepared myself to start my new medications. I hoped this would do the trick and be enough to heal me once and for all.

The Show Must Go On: Chapter 4

Leaving that night was bitter-sweet. For my health, I knew I had to leave, but I felt sad and guilty leaving my friends in the dark. But if I’m being honest, I was a little relieved to be heading home. Going to a loud bar, drinking a ton of booze, and dancing all night long should have sounded like a blast, but in reality, it was the last thing I wanted to do. I was having a hard-enough time faking a smile just sitting on the couch, there was no way I could muster up the strength to keep the charade going for an entire night. Instead of forcing myself to stay, I thought up a quick excuse about coming down with the flu, and I said my goodbyes. I suppose I could have just told them the truth, but I just wasn’t ready to share my newly diagnosed chronic illness with everyone. Especially not at a graduation party, what a buzz kill.

Forcing a smile, I reassured everyone that I was fine, just feeling a little under the weather, and I got ready to head home. Before leaving for the two-and-a-half-hour ride, I quickly changed out of my dress and threw on sweatpants and a hoodie. I needed to give my body as much comfort as I could, I knew the ride home was going to be unbearable. After a harrowing ride, I passed out as soon as we got home. In the morning, my parents demanded I call the surgeon and fill him in on what was happening. Terrified it would mean another surgery, I tried to put off making the call. I reasoned that everything would probably just clear up on its own and that I would be fine. My parents were insistent. Nervously, I called the surgeon and explained the pain I was having. I paced around the kitchen, too anxious to sit still. To my dismay, I was scheduled for an outpatient procedure for the beginning of next week. Hearing the news, I collapsed onto a bar stool. Slumped on the counter, I felt like I had gotten the wind knocked out of me. What was happening to me? ANOTHER surgery? It felt like everything was spiraling out of control. How many surgeries was I going to have to have? Why wasn’t I getting any better? I felt helpless.

As soon as I hung up the phone I burst into tears. Why wouldn’t this just end already? My mom rushed over to me and wrapped me up in a hug. She did her best to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. Sobs wracked my body, as my mom rubbed my back. Gently, she reassured me this would be the last surgery, but even then, it felt like a lie. I wanted so badly to believe this was close to being over, but I was too scared to get my hopes up. Deep down, I knew something was really wrong with me. I could feel it in my gut. My dad, in disbelief, blurted out, “Damn, another one? Why does this keep happening?” Almost refusing to believe it was true, he questioned what the surgeon had said. I repeated to him that the abscess had closed and needed to be drained again. I was distraught, I was angry, I was terrified. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. It felt unfair. Why couldn’t the surgeon just fix me? Why wasn’t I getting any better?

Crying in the kitchen, feeling defeated, I put my head down on the counter. To calm down, I forced myself to take three deep breaths. Once I had regained my composure, I wiped my tears and looked at my parents. Looks of worry returned my gaze. “Do you want us to cancel the party?” They implored. No, absolutely not, was my response. I was adamant that the party should go on. I didn’t want to be the reason behind ruining everyone’s good time. Besides, Sarah and Garrett had worked so hard to graduate and were excited about going away to their prospective colleges in the coming fall, they deserved their celebration. I didn’t want to take their big day away from them, that wouldn’t be fair. I refused to let my illness become an overshadowing distraction.

My parents were hard to convince, but I was persistent, and in the end, they didn’t cancel the party. I reassured them that I would be fine, but even then, I knew I was in bad shape. Everything hurt, I couldn’t walk without a limp, and I couldn’t sit without fidgeting relentlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. Anxiously, I worried that everyone at the party would find out about my newly diagnosed illness and that they would find out about my surgeries. It felt like a secret I had to conceal. The last thing I wanted was for everybody to find out. I wasn’t ready for everyone to know such an intimate detail about my life, it was too personal. At this point, I wasn’t even entirely sure what Crohn’s was, or what having it meant, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it with others. On top of that, it would be humiliating having to explain to everyone that I essentially had surgery on my butt. Twice. To assure that nobody at the party found out about my disease and subsequent surgeries, I swore my family to secrecy. Above all, I didn’t want my illness becoming a topic of conversation at the party, I didn’t want to be gossip. With a mindset of, “it’s nobody’s business but my own,” I vowed that it was my body, my disease, my struggle, and it was my decision who was privy to that information. My family agreed.

0558280426004The morning of the party, I was devastated to find that I didn’t feel any better than I had a few days ago. Despite my better judgment, I had held out hope that I’d make a miraculous recovery. But, of course, I hadn’t. To make matters worse, I noticed that unlike the first time I had surgery, this time the pain never faded, never went away. Refusing to ruin the party because I didn’t feel well, I put on the biggest smile I could manage and got ready to face my friends and family. Despite feeling pretty lousy, I was still determined to have a good time. When my friends and family arrived, I did my best to act normal and be the life of the party. Acting as if everything were fine, I chatted and mingled around the room. I kept it to myself how terrible I was really feeling. Soon, I realized that a bright smile and laughter went a long way. It was a challenge, but I fought through the pain.


To an audience of one, I put on the performance of a lifetime, acting as if I felt fine, like horrible pain wasn’t brewing just beneath the surface. It was a draining performance, smiling and socializing like nothing was wrong. In the end, I did my best to hold out for as long as I could, but eventually I got too tired to fake it any longer, so I snuck upstairs to relax in the bath before having to rejoin the party for the farewells. Before I knew it, I was saying goodbye to my friends and family and settling into pajamas for the night. When the last guest left, I collapsed on the couch, relieved and exhausted. It had been a fun day and I was glad to have powered through it, but I was completely drained and my body throbbed with pain. I couldn’t wait to go to bed and not have to move anymore.

The party had been my first “outing” since getting sick, and through that day, I learned one important thing: makeup was the miracle cure. When you look good, people assume you are feeling good, too. And as quickly as that, makeup became my best friend. I learned that a lot of makeup could quickly cover a pale, fatigued face, and make it easy to trick my family into thinking I felt fine when really, I wasn’t okay at all. It was a lot easier pretending I felt fine than letting my family know how much pain I was really in. I hated the look of worry that settled on their faces when I explained how awful I felt. It made me feel guilty to see them stress over me. All I wanted was for the pain to disappear and for life to go back to normal.

More importantly than learning of my new makeup miracle cure, I realized that I wasn’t going to be a victim of my illness. This day proved it. I was so proud of myself for powering through the day, and not letting the pain get the better of me. I vowed to myself that throughout this whole mess, I wasn’t going to lose myself. I easily could have hidden away in my bedroom, sulking and pouting because I didn’t feel good, but instead, I had risen to the occasion and fought to make it through the day with a smile on my face. I felt like a warrior. I didn’t want Crohn’s to take my sparkle. If I was going to have this disease for the rest of my life, I couldn’t let it control me and force me to miss out on experiencing life. Despite the overwhelming pain I was in, I was happy to have the memories from that day of my friends and family.

Just a Bad Dream: Chapter 3

The ride home from the hospital was brutal. Gritting my teeth, I tried desperately to find a position that took the pressure off my poor, aching butt. But I felt every move the car made. Searing pain radiated through my body each time the car jerked over the smallest bump, making me gasp and wince in pain. My mom drove home carefully, swerving out of harm’s way when she could, but she was cursed from the start. The road home from the hospital was dented with divots and craters. Trying to escape the pain, I curled into a ball and rested on my left side. It was no use, the residual pain from the abscess and the fresh pain from my recent surgery was so intense, I nearly threw up. Never before had I felt such overwhelming pain. I wanted to escape my body, if even for a moment to get a bit of relief, but I was stuck.

The 30-minute car ride lasted forever. By the time we got home, I was exhausted. We pulled into the driveway and I grimaced in pain. I tried not to take my anger out on my mom. After all, she was just the driver. Logically, I knew it wasn’t her fault the road was littered with potholes, but I was so enraged it wasn’t safe for anyone who crossed my path. Happy to finally be home, I hobbled towards the house, bracing myself against my mom. Limping, unable to put any pressure on my right side, I struggled to get inside. After climbing the garage stairs, one foot at a time, I finally made it safely into my house. I couldn’t wait to crash on the couch. I thought for sure I’d finally get some relief.

By the time I got inside, my butt had a heartbeat from the radiating pain, and I could hardly stand. While I stood waiting, my mom made me a comfy bed on the couch with my favorite comforter and plenty of pillows to prop myself up with. When she was finished, I limped myself over to the couch and gingerly laid down. I bundled a pile of pillows together, propped them up, and leaned my left side into them. I used another pillow to stuff under my right leg, to take the pressure off where the surgery had been. To my unbelievable disappointment, I quickly realized that no matter what position I placed myself in, no matter how I situated myself, I could always feel the pressure from the abscess. And it hurt like hell. Everything felt like a bad dream and I was ready to wake up.

Exhausted, frustrated, and in pain, all I wanted to do was sleep. Popping a couple of pain pills, I tried desperately to get cozy on the couch. Thankfully, sleep came swiftly. Worn out from the car ride home, if it’s even possible to be worn out from just sitting (it is), it didn’t take long for me to doze off. A few hours later I woke up to find my mom nervously watching over me. Upon seeing me stir, she immediately jumped up and insisted I get some food in my belly. At the time, I wasn’t yet used to having pills be the only thing in my stomach, so I agreed that food would be a good idea. After nibbling on toast and sipping chicken noodle soup (my mom is SUCH a mom), I immediately passed back out.

When I woke up later, I was disappointed to note I didn’t feel any better. At the time, the word “patience” wasn’t in my vocabulary. I was too accustomed to instant gratification, so I assumed healing would be a relatively quick process. I figured I’d sleep it off, and wake up feeling good as new, or at least a little better. But, that wasn’t the case. Despite the discomfort, I tried to stay positive by chalking everything up to surgery pains, hoping everything would heal up and go away in a few days. After all, I really didn’t have a choice, I had to get better, and fast. My college graduation was in a few days, and there was no way I was going to miss that. Not a chance. It was an honor I had worked too hard to achieve for it to be taken from me because of some silly pain in the butt. I was too proud of myself and all my hard work, there was no way some illness was going to rob me of that. Besides my graduation, the weekend was also my brother and sister’s (they’re twins) high school graduation party. It promised to be a good time, and I was excited to celebrate with friends and family. My body had better get its shit together, I had too many important events coming up, I just couldn’t afford to be sick.   

Determined to be well enough to walk at my graduation, celebrate with friends afterward, and enjoy my brother and sister’s party, I put on a brave face and did my best to heal as quickly as possible. As if there were really anything I could do to speed up the recovery process. Mostly, I slept on the couch; I was new to taking pain pills, and they really knocked me out. The boy who I was dating at the time came over to visit, but I wasn’t much company after being sedated. He mostly sat on the couch next to me and stroked my hair. After a few days of resting, I convinced myself that I was feeling better. Pushing the pain aside and ignoring it as best I could, I pretended that I was fine. I forced myself to walk around the house as normal as possible, so I didn’t draw attention to the fact that I was still hurting. By joking and smiling, I put on a happy mask and thought, “fake it till ya make it,” with hopes that a positive attitude would be enough to help me feel better. Even though in the back of my mind I knew something wasn’t quite right, I had too much riding on these next few days to be sick; I decided to ignore the warning signs. So, with a slightly exaggerated clean bill of health, I reassured my parents that I was feeling better, packed a bag to take with me to school, and I headed out for graduation. The plan was to stay with my old roommates for a few nights so we could celebrate our graduation in style with one last, outrageous night on the town.

My first night back at school was amazing. I drank enough to not feel the pain, danced the night away with my best friends, and laughed until I cried. My roommates and I reminisced about living together and all the shenanigans we got into, and I completely forgot about being sick. It was a great night. The following day was my graduation. My family and boyfriend arrived in the afternoon, leaving us plenty of time to have an early dinner and do a bit of celebrating before the big ceremony. We went to a nice steakhouse, had a few celebratory drinks, and then it was time to make the big walk. Before we left for dinner, my mom cornered me and asked me how I was feeling. I lied and assured her I was feeling just fine. But by this point of the night, it was becoming apparent that I wasn’t feeling well, more than just being slightly hungover. I was doing my best to hide it behind a bright smile and laughter, but I was having a hell of a time sitting still. My family eventually noticed I was favoring my right side and asked if it was the butt pain again. I shook my head no, and tried, yet again, to make excuses. I lied that I was just uncomfortable sitting in a dress and that I was walking weird because it’s hard to walk in heels. My family didn’t buy it, they know that I’m a pro at walking in heels. They didn’t have time to argue with me because it was time to line up for graduation, so we separated to find our respective seats. Before I walked away, my dad stopped me and said, “you know, you don’t have to do this. If you’re not feeling up for it we can go home right now. We know you graduated, this whole thing is just bullshit.” I wish I had listened to my dad.0730743372004

Once seated, I knew I had made a grave mistake. Not only were the plastic seats uncomfortable to begin with, sitting on them after having butt surgery was excruciating. I shifted in my seat, trying desperately to find a comfortable position, but to no avail. I scooched back and forth, trying to cross my legs and take the pressure off the right side without drawing too much attention to myself. I thought about making a run for it, but all hope was lost when the ceremony began, and I was trapped. I couldn’t pay attention to anything being said. My head swam as I tried desperately to come up with an exit strategy. I texted my parents to find out where they were sitting, and I plotted my exit. I worried to myself, “Should I just get up and walk out? Should I leave after they call my name? Should I just wait till the end?” The next thing I knew, I was being ushered out of my seat to the front of the auditorium. Momentarily distracted, I excitedly thought, this is it, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for! Walking up the steps to the stage, I handed a sheet of paper with my name to the reader. Moments later, I heard “Brittany Creasor” boom in my ears. Are you kidding me? BRITTANY?! Um. you mean, Britten! Typical.


I was furious. Not only had I sat through three hours of pure torture just to hear my name called, it turns out it wasn’t even my name that I got to hear. Feeling defeated, enraged, and exhausted, I carefully walked across the stage, received my diploma, and walked down the four steps to freedom. On my way back to my chair I truly debated just walking straight through the back doors, but my nerves got the better of me. I didn’t want to make a scene, so reluctantly I returned to my seat. When the ceremony finally ended and I was free to find my family I, again, put on a brave face. I didn’t want them to see how badly I was hurting because, honestly, I wanted to spend one last night with all of my friends before we all went home for summer and started our “big kid” jobs.

After noticing how drained I looked, my parents insisted I come home with them, reasoning that my friends and I could just get together over the summer. They didn’t understand, it wouldn’t be the same. Reassuring them that my boyfriend would drive me home the next day and that I really felt fine, my family reluctantly left and we went back to my old apartment to get ready for our night out. I tried to get into the party mood and forget about the pain, but it was so severe I was having a hard time. After being at the apartment for about an hour I finally gave up, I pulled my boyfriend aside and told him how much pain I was in; I couldn’t fake it any longer, I had to go home. Unwillingly, I explained to my friends that I wasn’t feeling well and said brief goodbye, promising to catch up with them over the summer. I didn’t go into detail about why I was really leaving. None of them knew I had even had surgery or was struggling with a chronic illness. I was too scared, embarrassed, and unsure of the situation to say anything. Even though I knew leaving was the right thing to do, I was still devastated to miss my last night of college because of this pain in my ass. It was so ironic that I almost had to laugh.

Only the Beginning: Chapter 2

I was admitted, for the first time in my life, to the hospital. I was instantly hooked up to an IV and given medication to help dull the pain. Needless to say, I was terrified. As soon as we got a moment alone, we called my dad and told him the news. His heart sank to his stomach as he heard the words, “she’s going to have surgery.” He worried about what to do, asking if he should come to the hospital? We told him no, there was nothing he would be able to do here. Before hanging up he told me he loved me. We said goodnight, but we both knew nobody was going to get very much sleep.

For hours, I waited to go in for surgery. Each agonizing minute felt longer than the last. The pain medication helped dull my senses, but I was still very uncomfortable and very nervous. I fought back tears by trying to make light of the situation. Odd, I know, but I always laugh when I’m nervous. Mostly, I joked about how student teaching had literally become a pain in my ass. I also made sure to email all of my teachers to fill them in on what was happening and explain that I wouldn’t be back to school for, what I assumed would be, a few days. My mom chuckled slightly and said, “Only you would be concerned about school at a time like this.” I forced a tight smile and nodded in agreement. The day had taken its toll on us; we were both exhausted.

Eventually, I was taken for surgery. It was a quick procedure. The surgeon drained the abscess and packed it with some gauze. I thought that I would get to go home immediately afterward, but they kept me in the hospital to monitor my recovery. The day after my surgery, when I finally awoke from my groggy, drug-induced slumber, I met with the surgeon who had worked on me. He introduced himself, explained what he had done during the procedure, and told me that he had some bad news for me. He explained that I had Crohn’s Disease, a chronic autoimmune disease and that it was the contributing factor in the formation of the abscess. I was devastated. I was confused. I was scared. I was bewildered. I was at a complete loss of what to do. “Crohn’s Disease? What does that even mean? How did I get it? What am I supposed to do now? Am I going to be okay?” I questioned. The only answer my surgeon had was that I would need to follow up with a GI. I would know more once a specialist took a look at me.

I sank back into my bed, devastated, scared, and tired. I covered my face with my hands and bit back tears. Out loud, I moaned, “What does this mean? What’s wrong with me? How did this happen to me? Did I cause this? Is it because of something I did?” There were no answers. Suddenly, overcome with fear and anxiety, I burst into tears. Sobs wracked my body as I cried hysterically, while my mom rubbed my back. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I felt scared and alone. And, honestly, I didn’t even grasp the full gravity of the situation. I didn’t quite realize what having a chronic illness meant, how it would affect me, how it would change me, the impact it would have on my life. Lost on me was the fact that this wouldn’t just go away, it would be something I would have to live with for the rest of my life, which was more than I could fathom at the time.

Eventually, I calmed down. My mom assured me that everything would be okay, that the surgeon had fixed me. Her words worked on me. I was convinced that I would be okay, that this was something easily treated. Neither of us had any idea how wrong we were. At the time, I was uneducated on chronic illness and Crohn’s Disease. It wasn’t anything I had ever heard of before. To my knowledge, I had never met anyone with a chronic disease or with Crohn’s. In my mind, it was just another sickness, like getting the flu or something.

While recovering in the hospital, I received a response from the advising teacher from my college who was in charge of my progress throughout student teaching. In her email, she explained that since I missed the last week of student teaching, despite starting a full month ahead of the scheduled start date and receiving straight A’s the entire time, I was going to have to redo the entire practicum. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Panic and frustration washed over me. How was I supposed to deal with this on top of everything else? Not only was I trying to cope with being diagnosed with a chronic illness, being in the hospital for the very first time, and the incredible pain in my butt, now I also had to deal with the possibility of not graduating on time and having to pay for an extra semester of college because I got sick, something that was totally out of my control. Gulping back tears, I put on a brave face and got to work. I fought hard from my hospital bed, making frantic phone calls to try to sort everything out, all the while being pumped full of pain meds and heavy-duty antibiotics. I cried, a lot.

Once I was finally home from the hospital I figured this whole ordeal was coming to a close and that I would be back on my feet in a matter of days. Ha. There was a brief moment of peace. I felt “normal” for about two weeks. In those two weeks, I wrapped up all loose ends for student teaching (I passed with an A), I went to a Cubs game (they won), and then I crashed. Hard. A few days into the third week of feeling “normal” again, I began to notice the same butt pain starting to creep back into focus. I felt it, I could tell something wasn’t right, but it wasn’t severe so I tried to ignore it. Again, I came up with excuses to explain away the pain, like maybe I had done too much walking around at the Cubs game, maybe I drank too much beer, maybe I sat on those uncomfortable bleachers for too long. It wasn’t until I could hardly walk without crying that I finally broke down and told my mom that the pain was back. I felt like it was my fault, like I had somehow done something wrong to cause this. Why was the pain coming back?

Nervously, I explained to my mom that I had the same weird butt pain again. It was in the same spot as before, despite being promised the fiasco was over. I didn’t know why it was back or what caused it. I felt like my body had betrayed me. Why wouldn’t it just heal already? In addition to the pain, I was also feeling really, really tired. Like totally exhausted for no apparent reason. So exhausted that I needed to take a nap after I showered because I was just that wiped out. My body felt heavy and fatigued, like I had worked a 12-hour shift on my feet without a break, even though it was still early in the morning. At this point, it was no surprise to me that I had to get back to the hospital; something just wasn’t right.

This time the surgery to drain the abscess was a little easier, but being new to the whole “being sick” process, I was still terrified. I wasn’t yet used to dealing with doctors and surgeons, I wasn’t used to being in a hospital, I wasn’t used to being put under for surgery, I wasn’t used to being stuck time and again with needles. Trying to find a bit of comfort through the whole ordeal, I used the same hospital and surgeon as I had the last time, and this time I was scheduled for an out-patient procedure. At this point, I was just relieved I didn’t have to stay in the hospital and be poked and prodded all night long.

After my out-patient procedure, I was again told that this should be my last visit and that the packing should do the trick. The surgeon seemed convinced that this would be his last time seeing me, he said goodbye, and we parted ways. I was sent home with instructions to stay off my feet as much as possible and rest for the next few days while the wound healed. I was told that I should feel fine by the end of the week. Feeling confident that this whole mess was behind me, I relaxed, thinking this had to be my last surgery. I was getting pretty tired of dealing with the literal pain in my ass, anyways. In reality, I didn’t have the slightest clue that this was only the beginning.