Felled by mysterious illnesses, the writer felt her life slipping away.
By Jennifer Crystal ’00
Tears streamed down my face as I watched my roommate take her marriage vows this spring. Weddings are emotional for everyone, but for me, attending this celebration was a gift that, until recently, had seemed an idealistic improbability.
Just six months ago, I was bed-ridden, unable to function on my own. For eight years, I had suffered from various elusive symptoms—exhaustion, chronic bronchitis, fevers, and hypoglycemia. Tests for mono, Lyme Disease, and other maladies were always negative; a nurse suggested depression. Though my heart said otherwise, I started to wonder if it was all in my head. Each time the symptoms surfaced, I tried harder to cover them up.
Illness was an imposition; convalescence was not in my plan for a meaningful life. With each relapse, I always returned prematurely to a tumultuous schedule, justifying this existence as a means to an end of success. My greatest fear was a diagnosis of mono; I didn’t have time for it.
At one of the busiest times of my life—on the heels of my second year of teaching, just as I was about to start a summer job as a camp counselor—I did, in fact, test positive for mono. Shocked and frustrated, I refused to allow this virus to get in my way. I went to camp, literally dragging my body to work.
That autumn, I was too tired to get out of bed. Aches returned, accompanied by migraines, burning extremities, and hallucinogenic nightmares. Despite exhaustion, insomnia plagued me, and I dangled on the precarious perch of sleep and sanity. Unable to care for myself, I had to move back home. I felt broken.
Specialized tests concluded that not only had my mono slipped in to chronic Epstein-Barr virus, but I’d also been suffering from long-term exposure to Lyme Disease and additional infections from tick-borne parasites. Though I’d tested negative for Lyme before, doctors informed me that less than 50 percent of standard Lyme tests are accurate. Left untreated, Lyme becomes dormant, only to flare up from time to time; a doctor theorized that I was infected in the late ’90s, which explained why I had gotten sick so frequently during the past eight years. The mono caused these dormant diseases to become active warriors against my weakening immune system.
For 11 months, I received intravenous antibiotics. Lying in bed with the medicine tracing from my arm to my heart to the raging bacteria, I quickly learned that life goes on without seemingly vital stressors. On good days, I ran an errand or had a phone conversation. On bad days, I was bedridden. Friends spoke of graduate school, marriage, life. I was a veritable living ghost, watching it all slip past.
But somehow, I began to live. At last, I was taking care of myself. I was resting, eating, even laughing. People worried I’d succumb to entropy, but I finally understood that rushing back to a job as I’d done before was selfish. What good could I be to others if I myself was not well? Before, I’d only dealt with the impact of illness on my body—not on my mind or spirit. A greater understanding of pain, suffering and healing taught me the intrinsic balance between the three, allowing me not just to get better—but to heal.
Just before my friend’s wedding, my doctor said the magic word: remission. Standing in the ocean at the reception, with water lapping on my feet and wind rushing through my hair, I felt more alive than I had in three years—maybe than I ever had before. My worst fear had made me whole.
Jennifer Crystal ’00 is a writer in Unionville, Connecticut.