Blessings in Disguise

This short story got published in an anthology called "Soul Survivors: From Trauma to Triumph" - 2016.

The man with the gun was in my bedroom. He came to find me. In the name of mercy, I screamed at him to pull the trigger - to execute my excruciating pain. My abdomen was a scabbard - the home of blades that pierced within me. The man with the bullet was my escape, my relief. He visited my mind when I was completely bent to one side of the bed - the comfortable spot usually in the fetal position - where the pain softens for a mild moment. I did not dare to move.

Migraine vigorously pounded my head. Diarrhea, nausea, fever, and cramps were some of the symptoms I endured. Sometimes the pangs of pain slept idly like a dormant volcano and other times they erupted capriciously. I never thought it was serious. My condition was alien to me and my parents. I blamed it on stress and depression. Naturally, the torture progressed until it exploded on my fragile body like cluster of paint splashed on white canvas. I could no longer hide my distress beneath strong smiles. Spasms of pain punctured my bones. For the first time, I was immobile. I could neither bath, nor change my cloths. I also had trouble swallowing water and food, but the worst part was digesting the truth: I was really ill. I was frustrated that I was losing my independence. Tears welled from my eyes, yet not a sob could be heard. At the age of nineteen, my patience was wearing thin. My parents finally booked a flight to Switzerland. We would seek medical aid from a doctor they trusted and discover what was wrong with me.

We reached Switzerland in a chilled November afternoon. The weather seemed understanding of my situation, as torrential rain accommodated my mood quite agreeably. At night, I tossed and turned on my bed. The nurses with their vampire needles terrified sleep away.

The next day, the nurse gently pricked my goose flesh for blood tests. As I closed my eyes in terror, I noticed that the pain endured was minuscule compared to my huge fear of needles. The doctor called at night and told us I had a virus and an inflammation in my stomach. At least I learned that I did not hallucinate my suffering. It actually had a name!

My weak state compelled me to enroll in a Distance Learning Law Program in Nottingham University. Although I missed university life so much, deep down I knew that I was fortunate to learn from home - even if I had to teach myself. I never expected I would miss all the simple things in attending a university the most: strolling to campus, staring out the windows in class, drawing swirls on the margins of my notebook, writing notes till my pen dries out and making new friends every day. It was a shame that I did not value the little things in life until I lost them, but it was no time to count my losses. I had to look at my blessings in the eye and fight for them. It was my only hope to succeed - even if they were blessings in disguise. I felt like they were playing hide-and-seek with me. I was determined to win by seeking each one of them, highlight their significance, and the impact they imprinted on me. They would aid me in weaker times. We would combat future storms together.

With every test tube filled, my fear of needles slowly diminished. The tests confirmed that my hemoglobin was below average. Not only were my emotions suffocated, but also oxygen in my blood aspired to breathe. My soul shriveled with anxiety. I filled the gaps of fear from the unknown with writing - my escape route. Notes on my diary - the friend that never left me - reminded me consistently to stay strong, accept myself, and smile.

At last, I met the specialist - my doctor. He was still uncertain about the type of disease I carried. Further tests and scans would determine the result. I was obliged to drink two liters of the most acrid and bile solution ever. Its pungent odor enveloped my nose. The lemon - my father squeezed inside the mixture - did not make it better. I spent the whole night and morning vomiting.

In the clinic, the specialist performed an ‘endoscopy.’ He injected deep inside my vein and attached an antiseptic tape to sedate the pain. Camera wires were attached inside my body to scan my colon and terminal ileum. I rested on the bed, cold and exposed. My eyes rained teardrops. My doctor wiped the trails away. “I understand,” he told me - fighting his own tears - "you're ashamed. It's fine. You're not alone.” This stranger of a doctor felt my real sorrows. He understood the significance of moral therapy before physical treatment – a crucial point which a lot of doctors from diverse nations neglected. Then, I underwent a ‘biopsy.’ The gastroenterologist took samples of the scattered, spotty patches of inflammation for laboratory analysis.

The specialist told me that inflammation colonized my colon and the border of my intestine. I was finally diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. Being told I had a disease that caused great pain was bad enough, but it was something else entirely to be told that it had no cure and I should be under medication for the rest of my life. With the scissors of optimism, I decided to cut the strings of anxiety and stress. In my mind, Crohn’s disease was reduced to a stilled puppet, lurking around lifeless. I learned to deal with pressure without internalizing it, so it wouldn’t consume me. I became more compassionate and understanding of people’s shortcomings, since exhaustion completely drained my energy. I began to look forward to my doctor appointments with my father always by my side. The pinkish-purple souvenir on my arm - courtesy of the needles - was mere proof of the good times my dad and I spent together.

I secretly feared that I might not be able to get pregnant in future or if I was blessed with children, I would not have the energy to care for them. After two years, my fear was kept at rest. I got married and pregnant. In my sixth month, I was mistakenly admitted to the hospital for labor, since Crohn’s disease crippling pain greatly resembled contractions. I witnessed a flare-up, because I failed to take my pills. Since then, I promised myself to take my medicine, no matter how much I grew sick of them. With the help of God, family, friends, and medicine, I was battling my disease victoriously. At least it was great practice for giving birth with no epidural or drug to tranquilize the pain. I was reticent through the whole labor experience. It made my gynecologist see girls from the new generation - my generation - in a new light. 

Some people chose to dwell on their sufferings and all the miseries a disease entailed. I chose to appreciate all the qualities I acquired after I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. I was no longer frightened of needles, my writing improved and was very therapeutic, as it provided me with the perfect outlet to unleash any negative energy on paper, and I became more sympathetic and closer to family and friends, especially my father. But most importantly, all the suffering ignited my soul with hope. I looked at my disease as a windowpane in a winter morning - snow filtering the glass from flaws, blemishes, and scars of the years. I felt purified - closer to God than ever before. Before my son turns six, I held three more children in my arms. I no longer felt incapable to raise them.

The man with the gun had waved his final goodbye. I got my miracle.