“You’re fighting, fighting and fighting. Your friends and parents are around. Then, when the cancer went away, everyone was gone and expected you to be back to normal and do the things you used to do before cancer,” said Starr. “That was the harshest reality.
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I can celebrate the last day I had to suffer in silence. The opportunity to hurt out loud was my greatest gift. It changed my whole life. I felt like I was saved.
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We all hold pain and uncertainty differently. We all find strength, resilience, fight our internal battle, differently. I cannot tell you how many days I looked in the mirror, with puffy, swollen, defeated eyes and tears streaming down my face and literally, out loud, spoke to my reflection. I willed myself to keep fighting. To keep fighting. One more breath. One more moment. One more day. That was my life.
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Amanda Quick was 29 years old when she received her breast cancer diagnosis. While unexpected, she shares her story, coping mechanisms, and lessons on gratitude.
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To the Doctor who ignored my Rare Disease because he thought I was drunk,
I don't blame you. I get it. A girl in her mid 20's comes in disoriented with slurred speech and shielding her eyes from the light, obviously assuming she's drunk seems like a pretty good call. It seems like a safe call. Except there was nothing safe about it.
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I am screaming at the top of my lungs but you continue not to notice. My hands violently thrash through the water and my feet try to propel me upward. My muscles tire and I do not have much breath left to give. I can see you, but you are blind to the fact I am sinking further and further down into the abyss. “Help me,” I shout in my mind. You continue on your way while I slowly suffocate. I can see you but you do not see me. You do not see me drowning. You never could see me drowning…depression.
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Almost ten years ago, my integrity was questioned regarding my chronic illness and disability for the first time. I was about four years into my diagnosis with rheumatoid arthritis, and despite the dark cloud that loomed over my head on a daily basis, I felt on top of the world.
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One thing they don’t tell you about rare conditions is that the testing can be grueling. The doctor just wants to make sure they know what you have, so you feel confident that you know what you have. But the tests… the tests can be nothing short of torture. For one of my conditions, I spent overnight in a hospital with an IV so they could inject something and then test my blood. They did this every hour, even when I was “asleep.”
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I have been hesitant to share this story. I do not want anyone to worry or be upset. I am not looking for pity or sympathy. I am actually not looking for anything. This is more about allowing myself to talk about this so that I can breathe and move forward to heal. It is cathartic for me.
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By looking at me, you probably wouldn’t know I’m chronically ill. Growing up, everyone called me Sunshine because I seemed happy all the time. I acted like everything was fine, but hid a lot of pain underneath the laughs and smiles. I didn’t want to be judged or be seen as weak.
To someone living with chronic illness, the question, “How are you?” can take on a new meeting.
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I am still in disbelief as I look back over the last 11 or so years. I didn’t think I’d survive. Only very recently have I grown strong enough to embark on the deliberate path of wiping off the mud. I’m smiling, beyond grateful for the fortitude and support that carried me through what felt like perpetual drowning and chaos. The load weighed just beyond what I could carry on my own. I’m lucky that I didn’t have to do it alone.
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