Work a Little Harder

I don't even think I went to the first week of school my junior year. Sick to my stomach and sick of my situation, I was confined to my bed, living off of antibiotics, day after day. "Gastroparesis," (a partial paralysis of the stomach) the doctors diagnosed, after what had seemed like endless tests over the past three and a half years. I had grown accustomed to the doctor's smell of rubbing alcohol and the sound of beeping monitors rather than the typical teenage experience. "You still go here?" acquaintances would ask when I was able to attend school.

"Sometimes!" I would joke back, making light of an unavoidable situation I was not fond of. Following the awkward reunion, most questioned my explanation; and although I knew the answer, "I just get sick a lot," was always my response.

However, I didn't simply just get sick frequently. I contracted this disease following sleepless months due to post-traumatic stress syndrome. I still imagine, as if it were yesterday, the lifeless body drifting in the depths of my pool, screams from every direction as I lifted this dripping, innocent, six-year-old girl's body onto the concrete and began CPR. "One, two, three," I counted aloud as I compressed on her weak, colorless chest. It wasn't working. After what had seemed like an eternity, I finally heard the sirens come closer for the help I had just recently called. "Get in the ambulance," I was told. Where was my family? I arrived at the hospital, shaking, struggling to catch my breath, awaiting the final verdict. The little girl was dead, on that glorious Sunday afternoon.

Our kind intention of helping the homeless—a good meal and clean clothes--turned into a tragic horror. I arrived home to my family as the sun was setting. They were not alone. Policemen, detectives, doctors, therapists, and more swarmed throughout the house investigating. It was endless. Closing my eyes meant revisiting the horror in a perpetual loop— sleep was not an option. My immune system weakened and my body broke down over the following months.

I waited for the doctor to return to my patient room, probably to tell me I had the flu again. Not only was I not getting better, I was getting worse. What was wrong with me? “Chronic pneumonia,” the doctors unsurely concluded. I quickly obtained a team of doctors that went straight into testing. I was admitted into the outpatient center in the hospital, a place I visited no less than twice a week. I soon said good-bye to my friends and teachers as I had to leave school in order to improve my failing heath. We expected my first round of blood tests to return quickly to confirm the pneumonic bacterium and uncover the reasons I wasn’t getting better. According to several blood examinations, my tests returned negative. My doctors couldn’t think of another explanation. 

At this point and for the next three years I would undergo countless tests, diets, surgery, medications, and probiotics, all of which didn’t work. The sound of beeping monitors and the smell of sterilized supplies became my home. We were running out of approaches when the bittersweet crisis arose. Finally, my doctors had discovered the root of my illness, Gastroparesis. Unfortunately, this disease is extremely rare and not curable. “Your health will continue to deteriorate,” my doctor confessed with heartbreak in her eyes, meaning that within months, I would need to choose between a feeding tube for the rest of my life, essentially confining me to life within a hospital, or slow starvation to death. I couldn’t accept this choice and decided with my parents to work harder and do more. 

After months of searching and excruciating illness we discovered a Gram-negative bacterium called Helicobacter pylori evolving within my stomach lining. With the presence of this infection, my Gastroparesis was likely to develop much quicker. Fortunately, there are procedures to terminate H. pylori, and I was freed. Following surgery and several weeks of heavy medications, my infection was gone and my Gastroparesis plateaued. Shocked by this result, my doctors applauded my diligence and explained that they had never seen nor heard of any Gastroparesis patient ever plateauing. 

Although simply getting out of bed every morning remained an enormous struggle, I learned to cope with my condition while I slowly recovered my losses. Pale from lack of sunlight and bruised from IVs, my mother encouraged me to fight. “This hour is hard, I know, but the next hour will be a little easier, and the next easier than before. Keep pushing and you will win,” she told me every morning, with tears in her eyes, as she could see my struggle. I am now able to live without the fears and the sadness, to look past the negative and find the positive, to "work a little harder to be a little better," as Gordon B. Hinckley wisely spoke, professing a motto I immediately adopted.

Throughout these trials I have learned to be resilient, to not allow obstacles to keep me down. Upon returning to my more normal schedule— school, tennis, church, and extracurricular activities— no one couldn’t believe my turn around. “Congratulations on your win,” my rival’s coach admitted to me with defeat, glaring down at my IV scared arms that held the CIF Championship trophy. Although the memory of that tragic accident and the resulting challenges have often been trying and painful, I would not be the young woman I am today without them. I have gained a better understanding of myself and have become a deeper, wiser, and more resilient individual.