Wednesday, March 7, 2018 // The Statement
6B

Do UC me

A

t first, I thought my illness 
was the flu or maybe the 
dreaded 
norovirus—nothing 

out of the ordinary for a college student. 
But I was in for a rude awakening. Little 
did I know my symptoms were actually 
the beginning of an entirely new life 
challenge I was totally unprepared for.

I found out one year ago these 

developing symptoms were actually 
ulcerative 
colitis, 
a 
chronic 

inflammatory bowel disease that causes 
bleeding in the digestive tract. I was in 
the middle of a severe flare-up, meaning 
the 
inflammation 
had 
suddenly 

worsened, causing me serious pain.

It 
took 
several 
time-consuming 

medical tests before my diagnosis. I 
discovered everyone who lives with 
UC has a different and unpredictable 
experience. It is called an “invisible” 
disease since many people who have it 
look healthy, but destructive things are 
occurring on the inside.

It interrupted every aspect of my 

life during Lent; a solemn season of 
penance, prayer and fasting, in which 
Catholics devote their lives to sacrifice. 
As a result of my new condition, I was 
about to learn a new meaning of Lent: 
perseverance.

I have gone to church on Sunday for my 

entire life, so going after my diagnosis 
was not an escape for me, but rather 
somewhere I might be understood and 
finally comforted. Without a cure or 
any ability to calm my symptoms, I was 
losing control over my daily routine. Not 
that the timing ever would have been 
ideal, but this also came during a packed 
semester when I was taking 17 credits.

The first doctor I visited told me I 

would just “feel better” after taking 
what was prescribed to me as if it were 
so simple. I was given several medicines 
to try, but never found one to subdue 
my symptoms at any point during the 
semester.

After grinding through school one 

day, I remember reaching back out 
and informing them my symptoms had 
worsened and I was struggling mentally. 
A few days later I got a message from a 
nurse saying, “It takes time.”

I did not have time.
Time, if anything, was running out. 

It was not just the physical debilitation 
—– losing over 20 pounds and not being 
able to eat nutritiously or exercise —– 
but also the psychological pain that 
weighed me down. Each day chipped 
away at my patience, my faith and my 
will. It was isolating, to say the least.

I could not find any balance and 

became depressed. Because I was afraid 

to eat anything, I could not focus and 
also began struggling in my classes. 
Skipping breakfast and lunch became a 
habit as I could only tolerate some soup, 
juice or salad, if I was lucky. I would try 
eating something for dinner, but could 
never finish a full meal.

I was losing touch with myself, often 

putting on a happy face in public to 
not worry others. It became a daily 
challenge to try to hide my symptoms 
as best as I could in front of my friends, 
teachers and classmates. If you are 
unaware of the symptoms of untreated 
UC, now would be the time to Google it. 

Needless to say, I was embarrassed and 
terrified at the thought of being seen as 
an outcast.

Doing routine things, like hanging 

out with friends, suddenly became 
risky. Without warning, I’d rush to 
find the closest restroom. Upon them 
asking what was wrong, I tried my best 
to describe it, but never could find the 
right words to do so.

As a result, I shut people out and 

stayed in as much as possible. My 
mood was enigmatic so I became quiet, 
frustrated by uncertainty.

My 
friends 
and 
family 
were 

supportive and sympathetic. My parents 
were the only ones I confided many of 
my thoughts in. This was never an issue. 

I just never had the courage to tell 
anybody how bad things really were, 
not only physically, but also mentally. 
Nobody warned me beforehand how 
psychologically draining this could 
become.

I asked myself, “Why now? Why 

Lent?”

In my frustration, I swore both at 

myself and at God. I thought, “How 
could you do this to me now?” Though 
it was upsetting to do so, it also felt 
liberating, like a weight had been lifted 
off my shoulders. At first, I would try 
lying to myself, thinking everything 

was fine and then 
doing 
something 

destructive 
like 

going out at night 
with friends.

I quickly learned 

instead I had to feel 
all of my emotions 
and express them. 
I 
was 
reminded 

no 
matter 
how 

you feel, you have 
to be honest with 
yourself in a life of 
faith. This would 
help me avoid doing 
things 
that 
put 

my health at risk 
and 
subsequently 

allowed me to move 
forward.

I still kept my 

anxiety to myself, 
though. 
Moments 

of 
comfort, 
or 

freedom 
from 

isolation, 
came 

during mass at St. 
Thomas, 
where 

I 
heard 
biblical 

stories of hardship 
and determination 

and prayed alongside others. It gave me 
the courage to believe things would get 
better. Quite honestly, it gave me the 
little bit of the hope I needed to make it 
through the week.

My symptoms were still damaging in 

the week leading up to Easter, and none 
of the medicine I was taking helped. 
Thankfully, though, it was the end of 
the semester; I didn’t have to drop any 
classes and I could go home.

Once I moved back home, I was 

abruptly 
hospitalized, 
making 
me 

realize just how defeated my body and 
mind really were. I was allergic to one of 
my failing medications, causing painful 
acute pancreatitis and forcing me to 
spend three nights in the hospital. The 

doctors told me this only happened to 
around 2 percent of people who took 
this medicine.

Despite 
this 
setback, 
stability 

returned to my life after beginning 
treatment on a new medicine. It 
successfully suppresses my symptoms, 
and I receive it every two months 
through an hour-long infusion.

I no longer had to rely on a clear liquid 

diet. Instead, I could enjoy real food and 
slowly ease myself back into working 
out. Though I have yet to regain most of 
my lost weight, I feel normal again.

By May, Lent was over, and I was 

beginning to feel relieved. For the first 
time in what felt like forever, I was 
comfortable and could breathe easier. I 
could actually see the beauty in things 
again, rather than having to constantly 
worry where the closest bathroom was.

Today marks a year since my symptoms 

began, and Lent has again returned. 
Despite the vast improvements in my 
health, it is still a challenge for me to 
find everyday balance. I struggle when 
symptoms 
unexpectedly 
resurface 

and remind me I still have limits 
and must eat only certain foods, take 
dietary supplements, probiotics and 
receive infusions to keep my body from 
returning to a damaging state.

Though I am still unsure how or why 

this all happened, I am more honest 
with myself now. I cannot take anything 
in life for granted and must take my 
health very seriously; doing everything 
I can to avoid any future setbacks. I 
have come to terms with knowing I will 
live with this affliction for the rest of 
my life.

I recognize now the psychological 

toll this experience has taken on me. 
Looking back, I wish I had done more for 
my mental health rather than allowing 
my isolation and pride to prevent me 
from getting the help I really needed. I 
have been fortunate to join the Crohn’s 
and Colitis Student Initiative, which 
promotes awareness of inflammatory 
bowel disease and its effects so students 
can feel more supported on campus.

Staying faithful and being honest 

includes knowing your limits and 
recognizing when things are wrong. 
Especially when you yourself are 
wrong. It also means not being afraid 
of what people might say and, above all 
else, not lying to yourself. After all, this 
is what Lent is all about.

I know now better than ever that 

making it by in life is not the difficult 
part. Overcoming not just physical, 
but also psychological hardship is the 
difficult part.

BY KEVIN BIGLIN, DAILY STAFF REPORTER

ILLUSTRATION BY 

BETSY STUBBS

