Dear Inflammatory Bowel Disease,
I had never heard of you before we met. I grew up watching my dad receive boxes of supplies in the mail, filled with interesting shaped bags and small packs of what looked like wipes. I knew that my dad had gotten extremely sick and had an operation when I was just a baby, but I never understood exactly what had made my dad so sick and why he used the boxes of supplies.
When I first became ill, you were confused with your close relative, Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The doctors told me it was stress. They gave me an anti-spasmodic medication and advised me to lower my stress level through yoga or meditation. I listened to them, even adopting a low residue diet that I read about on the internet.
But still you persisted, growing stronger each day, but remaining un-diagnosed. You sent me to the ER, landing me a bed in a local hospital while doctors ran tests. You had me chained to an IV pole for fluids and antibiotics and finally, after a month of weight loss, ER visits, and two-week long hospital stays, we were introduced.
"You have what is known as Inflammatory Bowel Disease," the doctors in white coats standing around my hospital bed said.
At first, they were unsure whether you were Crohn's or Ulcerative Colitis. But several tests and a scope later, it was revealed that you were severe Ulcerative Colitis, passed down from my dad. So while we had never met, my parents were all too familiar with the pain and destruction on one's body that you are capable of causing. They did not want me to meet you and their worried and somber faces told me that I did not want to meet you either- but it was too late. Over the next year, you would change my life in ways that I would have never imagined.
You caused me pain. Pain so severe that even the memory of it hurts as you quickly wrecked havoc on my body. I tried to get rid of you. I tried diets and powerful medications that made my joints hurt and my appetite disappear. I tried infusions of biologics that I had allergic reactions to, almost costing me my life. I even tried willing you away as I made my way to the restroom for the 15th time in one single night.
You put on quite the show when my parents wheeled my into the ER at Johns Hopkins Hospital, flaring your ugly head worse than ever before. You were consuming me, slowly taking over my body as you destroyed my colon and threatened my other vital organs.
On August 24th, 2016, you had officially won the battle. At only 72 to pounds and barely able to stay conscious, the surgeons at Johns Hopkins Hospital removed my colon in an emergency last resort.
But here is the thing: you may have won the battle, but I won the war.
Now free of your toxic chains, I had to rebuild from the very bottom. Was it hard? Absolutely. Did I cry? Many times. But with every tear that I shed and every surgery that followed, I grew stronger. My fear of you faded as you now existed in the mere memories of the precious months.
You forced me to become strong. You forced me to take a terrible situation and find a positive light to it. Your efforts to break me down both physically and emotionally failed. Your efforts failed because you may have won the battle, but I won the war.
You have taken many important dates from me while I lay in a hospital bed in pain from your poison grip. Birthdays, graduations, holidays, vacations, work- the list goes on and on. You made me miss my best friend moving across the United States while I battled your ruthless effects. You became the star of my apologies as I solemnly cancelled plans with family and friends. But that was exactly what you wanted.
I never asked to meet you. In fact, the millions of men, women, and children living every day with your ill effects never asked to meet you either. We were unwillingly thrown into your den, forced to cope with our changing lives because of you. But the people who stand up to you every day through pain, nausea, dehydration, hair loss, weight loss, toxic medications, surgeries, feeding tubes, ports, and more are not afraid of you.
We are so much more than you, Inflammatory Bowel Disease.
We are stronger than you.
Braver than you.
And one day, we will find a cure to stop anymore men, women, and children from meeting you. That is not a threat, that is a promise.
So, thank you, Inflammatory Bowel Disease, for showing me just how strong I really am, for making me appreciate the small things in life, and for connecting me to a community of individuals just as strong fearless against your terrible presence.
You may have won some battles, but we will win the war.
Inflammatory Bowel Disease and other chronic illnesses change our lives in ways that we never would have anticipated. But to everyone that is still fighting: stay strong and keep on, keepin' on. You are not alone. You will win this war.
"You either get better or your get bitter. It's that simple. You either take what has been dealt to you and allow it to make you a better person, or you allow it to tear you down. The choice does not belong to fate. It belongs to you." - Josh Shipp
- Kristen