Being diagnosed with a life-threatening disease my freshman year wasn’t easy. It was, however, a catalyst for lifelong compassion, a newfound forum for personal philosophy, an ideal foundation for tackling obstacles, and the ultimate lesson in redefining my limits. Most importantly, it’s the premise of my bravest story.
Lying in the light of a monitor while an outdated media player droned past ungodly hours, I remember hugging my waist, unaware of my severe internal bleeding. That scorching June night, I curled into a fetal position, kicking off comforters and praying relentlessly. I dreamed of a better life and hoped I’d find it.
Hospitalized months later, I listened to my mother typing a novel she’d promised to write for me, driven by the fear it wouldn’t be finished before I was. It was an unpredictable, if not impending, deadline. I watched films during ten-day fasts, craving distraction.
When I could bear no more, I pulled blankets over my head and burrowed into the dark. I dreamed of a city and hoped I’d survive.
Later that year, an eight-year-old in recovery told me about her favorite movie while fiddling with the oxygen mask pinned to her nose. She had overcome the same operation I was condemned to, unthinkingly valiant while I’d been hiding somewhere inside myself.
I found the strength to stand somewhere within the sea of dark days. Clinging to an IV pole, I walked the halls with failing flesh and unyielding resolution. With each passing door, I encountered flushed little faces and saw families sobbing outside the pediatric ICU. When the sorrow became intolerable I rushed to turn the corner, endangering my sutures with a near fall. I found myself in a playroom, standing before a preschool-aged patient driving matchbox cars over a road-map rug while his father softly read aloud in Spanish. Despite the cords of an IV tugging when he extended his arm, he giggled, oblivious to bloodshot eyes and pumping medication. I felt impossibly lost, but I sat. I was keen to rest for a while.
Watching this ruddy-cheeked kid as he vroom-vroomed and asked me a dozen questions, I wondered how someone so tiny could be so insightful and lionhearted while I was falling apart.
When I returned to my room, I lay awake for hours, thinking. That night, a phoenix rose from the ashes of a sickly girl wrapped around a diagnosis. It was then I realized fate’s script wasn’t pointless. The only thing standing between who I am and who I want to be is what I do. The monster wasn’t under my bed; it was something inside me. The solution isn’t having all the answers; it’s learning to adapt and fight and work harder than ever before. It’s changing yourself and then the world. That revelation has stayed with me.
When I look at someone, I look at the entirety of a story spinning throughout the fabric of reality. I see something cherished or despised, haunted or liberated, lost or blissfully in love with life. This empathy has since translated into my every act.
I discovered blinding hope in the face of suffering. I began to need to understand the human experience. This became the basis of my admiration of endurance, my captivation with escapism, my appreciation for the human story and my passion for conveying it. I began craving the art of storytelling, of condition and mortality, captured in a literature-film-theater trifecta. The more I immersed myself, the more I understood.
Something in my past echoes into everything I say and do and will become, so I keep it meaningful. I never abandon a kind, curious heart. I look forward, I go forth, and most importantly, I seize the moment.
Go ahead, roll the credits. I’m living a story worth telling.
