Shalom magazine - The Atlantic Jewish Council

C a m p u s L i f e
continued from page 11
realm of the medical universe; I was just
as comfortable in the hospital as I was in
my own bedroom. It was an extension of
my life.
I had a little over a month from my
birthday in late July until the 11th grade
started. I was excited and nervous – I had
been elected to be on the executive of the
student government and I was starting
the International Baccalaureate (a college
prep program) diploma program. While
my teachers and guidance counselor
saw my spark to learn, they hesitated
on giving me the thumbs up, concerned
about the immense workload and my
crippling disease in combination with a
nervous system pain disorder that was
developing. And while it might have
seemed reckless or stubborn at the time, I
smiled at their insecurities and informed
them I was doing the program anyway.
Any teen, regardless of illness, comes
face to face with stress. However, a
teen with IBD has to be that much more
conscious of stress and one’s reaction to
it, otherwise the stress could exacerbate
an already precarious situation. In part
because of my previously unremarkable
past with IBD, I was semi-oblivious to
the devastating effects on my life, I just
kept working and kept getting sick. I was
unknowingly entering an unthinkable
journey – my nonsensical roller coaster
of trying and ‘failing’ every available IBD
treatment.
One day in the student government room,
I was venting about my illness and the
immense blood loss and the obvious pain
that comes with it. After a long pause, one
of the guys cleared his throat and asked
if I was talking about ‘girl bleeding.’ I
laughed, assuring him that Crohn’s wasn’t
the same as a period, but it also made me
angry – why don’t people know about
IBD? The thought raced through my mind
– there is so much left to change about
how we perceive IBD. It gave me more
fuel to push my work with the YAC to
really make a difference.
By the 12th grade, I felt empowered by
my YAC friends who went to university
and had successful, happy lives, despite
my deteriorating body. I landed in the
hospital three times throughout the year,
each time admitted through the ER with
enough blood to sink a ship. Each time
the drugs didn’t work, each time I was
there for weeks. My teachers panicked
– it was my final year of a very rigorous
and intense academic program. But they
had no reason to worry, I had developed
a system – leaving my work in the
bathroom. In all honesty I spent the vast
majority of my time in the bathroom,
and desperately seeking a distraction,
I had books and work to fill the time.
When I think about my hospitalizations
that year, I initially think of the major
assignments I finished. One of the most
memorable was a Theatre project that I
had my family helping coloring in pictures
of make-up sketches as I ran back and
forth to the bathroom with my IV pole and
NG tube guzzling scope predatory liquid
to my damaged bowels. I did work right
up until they wheeled me away for the
colonoscopy. That year I had many NG
tubes, in and out of the hospital, a couple
of PICC lines, and many needles. My NG
feedbag-backpack became known as my
‘snack pack’ – it helped others cope with
my disease that I was at ease with. I was
relieved to have a physical reminder of
my disease, not for myself, but for others,
so that they could see and perhaps begin
to understand the horrific consequences
of my disease.
The 12th grade not only brings prom
dresses and yearbooks – but that all
important decision of what to do after
high school. As a dual citizen thanks to
my Mom’s American roots, I had always
wanted to go to university in the States.
I bet if you asked me as a five year old I
would have told you the same thing, and I
wasn’t willing to give up that dream to go
to a local school for my health. I wrote my
college essays from the toilet, expressing
myself as vividly and heartfelt as possible.
Those who knew me did not show
hesitation about my desire, they knew I
could do it, it was the people who didn’t
know me well who encouraged me to stay
home and get healthy. Again, I smiled
and decided to go to Boston University
to achieve my new career goal of being a
pediatric psychologist for chronically ill
children. And, to the surprise of those who
Page 12 Tishre 5771 - Vol 35 No. 2
doubted my decision to IB during high
school, I graduated at the very top of my
class.
Of course I was nervous about going
away to school. Of course I was scared
that I would get sick so far away from
home. But illness or not, life is made up
of probabilities and gambles and I was
going to BU come rain or shine. It helped
that there are so many great hospitals in
the city, particularly when I ended up in
the hospital during the first semester for
about a week. I kept on top of my work as
always, bringing books to the bathroom
and emailing the professors myself – I
have found that honesty and alerting them
to future absences is the best policy. After
I was discharged, my doctor at the BU
health centre called asking if I wanted
more time for assignments or such. I
was offended, I
was able to deal
with my work, I
had never taken
a break handed
to me and didn’t
plan to begin doing
so. In hindsight,
the doctor was
trying to be
supportive, which
I appreciated, but
I have learned to be so independent when
it comes to my disease that sometimes
any advice can seem patronizing. But, as
I learned, sympathy is not an attempt at
patronizing, it’s a bridge to understanding.
Being at BU has been the most amazing
experience of my life. I had wonderful
classes and professors, thoughtful people
who saw me as an academic with a barrier
and not a problem. I was on the Dean’s
List both semesters in addition to being a
part of several extracurricular activities
and making great friends. Yes, I did make
a habit out of going to the hospital. Yes, I
downed bottles and bottles of medication
throughout the year. Yes, I was sick and
had accidents and cried, but I also got
back up and kept going. It wasn’t easy,
and I didn’t do it alone, but – I did it.
Years ago, my English teacher got the
class to write letters to our future selves.
I wrote – “You hope to rise above your
disease and excel.” And though my wishes