emme2844

I remember thinking something was seriously wrong, but I didn’t know what. That was the hardest part—knowing my body was changing in a way I couldn’t explain, while every answer I got seemed to lead somewhere else.

At first, it felt like something simple. Maybe an infection. Maybe inflammation. Something that would pass. But it didn’t pass. Instead, it escalated in a way that was hard to describe even while it was happening—like my body was slowly shifting into a version of itself I didn’t recognize.

The pain wasn’t just discomfort anymore. It was persistent, disruptive, and impossible to ignore. And then there were the other symptoms—the ones you try to rationalize away at first, the ones you hope are temporary or unrelated. I kept waiting for things to settle down, for some kind of explanation that made everything make sense.

But instead of clarity, I got more questions.

Doctor visits started to blur together. Tests were ordered, possibilities were mentioned, and then revised. At one point it felt like I was being passed through a system that was trying to eliminate everything serious before landing on something simple. I wanted it to be simple. I think everyone did.

But my body wasn’t cooperating with simple explanations.

I remember sitting in the middle of all of it thinking how strange it was—how surreal it felt to be in pain, in and out of appointments, hearing words like “colitis” and “inflammation” and “we’ll know more soon,” while my life outside of all this kept moving normally for everyone else.

That’s what it felt like most: two realities existing at once. The one where I was getting sicker and more uncertain, and the one where everything still looked ordinary from the outside.

Eventually, I was admitted for more definitive testing. I remember the shift in energy when that happened—like the uncertainty had finally reached a point where it couldn’t stay outpatient anymore. Things became more serious, more contained, more immediate.

And still, I didn’t have answers.

Only the growing sense that something significant was being missed—or was about to be found.

Looking back now, it feels like a scene from a medical drama. At the time, it didn’t feel dramatic. It just felt like survival inside uncertainty, one day at a time, waiting for someone to finally name what was happening inside my own body.