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