“Ouch! Ugh! Geez!” I’ve uttered these phrases innumerable times since I was wheeled out of the hospital to my father’s waiting car with eight holes across my midsection. Every bend, stretch and jarring motion tugged at my newly repaired insides as I maneuvered my way into the backseat, out of the vehicle and into my home. Once inside, I swallowed the remnants of a Vicodin pill that had been crushed into dust the night. Every four to six hours thereafter, I did the same hoping the medication would ease my pain.

Each day finding a comfortable place on my sofa and bed to rest my weary body was a struggle; one I thought, and was told by my surgeon, would progressively get easier. Yet it wasn’t, leaving me to wonder: “How long can I sit or lay in the same spot waiting for body to heal?” This questions haunted as I watched the days on the calendar pass and the scars on the outside of my body slowly fade.

Spending hours in front of the mirror, closely monitoring any changes, became a regular routine for me. Of course, this was in between my regular pill popping sessions, tea inhalation and futile attempts to swallow any solid food. Eating was no longer a priority for me because it was impossible thanks to a swollen esophagus; that condition was another unexpected by product of my autoimmune disease.

Three weeks following the surgery that rebuilt my gastrointestinal track, I saw no evidence of healing. Frustrated, angry and often hungry, I began to wonder: “Why didn’t you take me while I was under anesthesia God if you weren’t going to fix me?” I waited for a sign or an answer from above to my question, thinking one hadn’t come.

Then one day, after sitting up for five hours straight without needing another pillow, to adjust my seat or to take another Vicodin pill, it hit me. While I wasn’t completely well, I was getting better. Healing for me was going to be a slow, arduous process but one that I had been given the fortitude to get through by a force greater than myself.

About the Author:

Nika C. Beamon in the author of the medical memoir, Misdiagnosed: The Search for Dr. House about her 17 year journey to get the correct medical diagnosis. In 2009, Chicago Review Press published her non-fiction book, I Didn’t Work This Hard Just to Get Married. She is also published two mystery novels.