...And So I Fight (Short Story – Nonfiction)

I fight. Every day. Through clenched teeth and roaring stomachs. Through sharp pains and dull, yet powerful aches. Through the visible and the invisible pains that surround me. I fight. Because what else is there to do?

I stare at the food on the plate in front of me and wonder if I should eat it. It’s almost a subconscious question that I’m barely even aware of at this point, but it’s still there nevertheless. I question if it’s worth it. I question if it will help me more than it will hurt me. I question what I have to do later that afternoon, and if I eat what is in front of me – will I still be able to do what needs to be done?

On a daily basis I question my body’s ability to make the right decisions. To eat something and keep it down. To eat something without being in so much pain that I can’t leave my couch. To eat something and have it fill me with nutrition rather than a pain that I’ve come to compare to being kicked and punched in the stomach repeatedly for hours.

I sit behind my desk at work, or on a desk in front of a class because, well, it’s more comfortable than standing. But not just for my feet. It allows me to relax – as much as I’m capable of relaxing. It allows me to hunch over and apply pressure to the gurgling monster inside of me, while still teaching whatever lesson I managed to muster up that day.

I spend hours at work with a smile plastered on my face. I stay late after school making small talk with other teachers in the hallway, telling them that I’m fine when they ask how I’m doing. I get as much of my work done as possible, because as soon as I get home, the mask falls – and I can no longer contain the pain.

Every day is a new battle. And each day I manage to fight through it – but not without questioning, every once in awhile, whether or not I’ll actually make it through this time.

When I was twelve years old I stopped asking these questions. I gave up. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that something that was supposed to help me was causing me so much pain, so I stopped. I stopped eating. I drank water, but that was about it. For eight months.

My parents questioned if I was anorexic or bulimic – unable to understand my pain, because it was a pain they could not see. They brought me to doctors and to therapists – but they only threw labels at things they couldn’t understand. They wanted to blame trauma and bad relationships. They wanted to blame me and my past for something I had no control over.

I’d run to the bathroom for hours after “eating” a meal, because I knew even one bite was going to end up causing me enough pain to result in a fetal position for the rest of the night. My parents refused to let me leave the table until I had finished eating, often hours after everyone else had already left the room. I sat alone. In the dark. Debating whether to eat in order to make my parents happy, or to avoid the food that would cause me to be in pain for the foreseeable future. I tried to find a middle ground. I stuffed the food into my mouth, left the room, and spit it out in a trashcan in my bedroom hoping they wouldn’t find out. But they did. That was when they tried shoving food down my throat. It didn’t go over well.

Most of the eight months occurred during the summer that followed the sixth grade. I was too exhausted to move, to wake up, to be a person. Most people tell me it’s not possible to go eight months without eating – because if I did, I’d be dead. And I promise you ... I wasn’t far from it.

I spent most of my time sleeping, constantly being woken up to join my family in another room, where I would drag myself and then promptly fall back asleep since I had absolutely no energy to even keep my eyes open. I was dragged to doctors where I had to force multiple bottles of liquid chalk down my throat. Sure – I can’t stomach eating anything, but chalk sounds appetizing, so why not?

One doctor listened. One doctor paid attention to every pain and ache – every wince that I tried to hide and every scream that I internalized. She gave me answers. She gave me a diagnosis. She told me there was no cure, but it was treatable. She sent me off with medications and monthly blood tests. She kept my body alive, but I no longer had hope. I was no longer healthy. I was no longer the carefree twelve-year-old that only had to worry about which friends she’d be inviting to her birthday from her new school. She changed everything. And I hated her and her cold personality for all of it.

I have Crohn’s Disease. An inflammatory bowel disease. An autoimmune disease. My immune system overworks by trying to kill itself. It views everything as a foreign object that needs to be destroyed. Food included. Me included. This disease causes my intestines to be inflamed, irritated by any food that passes through – to be ulcerated, allowing holes to form in the lining of my intestines – to have strictures, restricting any food from passing through and forcing it all to go back up the way it entered. I have a disease that fights to control my life on a daily basis – but I fight back.

When I was twelve years old, I was told that I have an incurable disease that will make my life hell, and while no one knows what causes it, it is triggered by stress. Great. I live a high-stress lifestyle. I took seven classes in one semester in high school when I was only allowed five. My resumé for entering college included five pages worth of extracurricular activities. I worked six jobs every summer growing up, because I’d get bored with just one. I took 23 credits per semester in college when the dean tried to cap me off at nineteen. I teach three classes, run three clubs, teach the SAT prep course after school, and manage to have a second job outside of school despite never leaving the building before 4:00pm. I like to be busy. For me, free time results in being bored, so I stay busy. And yes, it’s stressful. And while this works best for my mentality, it doesn’t mean that it’s been the best for the rest of my health.

I used to think that I knew best. I thought that if I felt okay, then that meant I didn’t need the medications that doctors were telling me to keep taking. I didn’t want to keep taking them. I was twelve and the thought of taking dozens of pills every day just wasn’t something that I wanted to live with for the rest of my life. So I stopped taking them. I waited until my parents left the room, I tiptoed over to the trashcan, dumped the pills quietly into the trash, and quickly placed a napkin on top of them so that they wouldn’t be easy to discover. I didn’t want my parents to discover the truth. Deep down, I knew what I was doing was wrong. But that didn’t stop me. I kept doing it. For weeks. Until my doctor called my parents asking if I had stopped taking my medication. Apparently my blood tests were able to determine what I wasn’t: I was quickly declining and if I didn’t start taking my medication again, I would be right back where I had started – clutching my stomach and asking God – a god I’m not sure I even believe in – why me?

So I started taking them again, and have been since. Over a decade worth of medications have built up in my body. But sometimes they decide they’re no longer the right call for me. Sometimes they stop working. Sometimes my health deteriorates so quickly that I lose thirty pounds in a month because my system doesn’t understand how to absorb nutrients from the food I’m eating. Sometimes I’m forced to spend months and years waiting for a new medication to work – stuck waiting, in pain, with no answers or quick fixes.

Every year there are new challenges. New foods to avoid, new medications to try, new coping strategies to employ. And it will never end. I have a disease that tries its damndest to control my life. It tries to get my to quit the things I love. To stop participating in the activities that make me happiest. To stop socializing with the people I have left who truly try to understand what I’m going through. To stop being me.

But I decided a long time ago not to let it win. Not to let it control me. Not to let it get in the way of who I want to become. Instead I use it. I use it to help me understand others. I use it as a way to empathize with those that have more going on than what shows on the surface. To understand that not all emotions or illnesses or experiences are visible. That the person walking down the street in a rush might appear angry or distraught at first glance, but the reasons behind the first glance are endless.

To this day people try to discredit my illness. They tell me I’m lucky to have a condition that makes it so easy to lose weight. They tell me that if I just ate a healthy diet, I’d be fine – despite the fact that healthy food is what causes the most pain for me. They tell me that they know exactly what I’m going through because they spent the last twenty-four hours with a stomach bug. But they don’t know. They can’t know. They can’t even relate – because this condition is unrelatable.

I have a disease that manifests itself differently in every person who has it. Some people can tolerate certain foods that send others to the hospital. Certain people respond well to medications that cause allergic reactions in others. Some people benefit from exercise when others struggle to get out of bed due to the pain. I don’t understand anyone else’s pain better because of my condition. I can’t read minds or prescribe medications or tell people what will work best for them. I can tell them what I’ve been through. I can share my story. I can help open the eyes of others to the fact that maybe that rushed and angry person on the sidewalk might need the benefit of the doubt, because maybe – just maybe – they’re dealing with something that we cannot even fathom understanding.

This is why I won’t wish away my condition. This is why I’m grateful for the things I’ve learned from it and the person I’ve become because of it. This is why I write about it on a regular basis. This is why I became a teacher – because trying to relate, understand, and show others that they are not alone in their experiences is the entire reason I keep fighting.

JED243 (Short Story – Fiction)

Pelting the thin glass, the rain causes me to look up every few seconds. I sink into the corner of my thirty-year-old, worn-out, red tattered couch and pull the shoebox closer to me. Old photographs crinkle under my touch as I flip through the contents, and folded articles threaten to rip with each brush of my fingertip.

The box was filled years ago and buried deep within my closet. My husband, Charlie, knew I dwelled on the memories inside whenever I opened it, so putting it away seemed to be the only logical solution. I only came across it when little Gracie decided it would be fun to pull out all of mommy’s clothes, try them on, and leave them in a big heap in the middle of the hallway for Ralphie to turn into his own personal slobber-cave. The box was mixed in at the bottom amongst various other shoeboxes, but got turned upside down when Gracie found no heels inside to clonk around in.

Half of the contents of the box were stuck together from various residues and inks of the photographs over the years. Tucked away at the bottom of the box was a piece of yellowing paper folded three-fold and then folded in half again.

Dear brother,

It’s been four years. Four years since you left me, and mom, and dad. Four years since I saw you smile with your crooked teeth that I constantly made fun of and teased you about. Four years since I yelled at you and told you that you were the worst brother a girl could have and that I wanted you out of my life forever. Four years since I sat in that hospital crying in the corner by the vending machine so that no nurses could take pity on me, put their hand on my shoulder, and say “there there, it’s going to be okay.” Because it wasn’t. It isn’t. You’re gone. You left me. You haven’t come back and I don’t know what to do anymore. You would have been 19 today, Jordan. You would have been 19. Why couldn’t you have just worn your seatbelt?

I miss you, Jordan. I’m sorry about what I said that day. I’m sorry I told you to get out of my life and to never talk to me again. I’m sorry I secretly wished you were gone and wouldn’t come back. I’m sorry I ever said it to your face. I wish you were still here, Jordan. I wish you were here to argue with and fight with and tell me how wrong I was. I wish you were here. I miss you.

And I know I never told you this… but I love you.

Cara ♡

I let out a deep breath. I hadn’t realized I had been holding it since I had read “seatbelt.” I forgot I saved this letter. I forgot it was in this box. All of my memories. Everything that had happened. Everything I had repressed for so many years was suddenly flooding into my mind at once.

~*~

A delicate voice crackled through the intercom once again, urging certain doctors to go this way or that, to do this procedure or that, or simply to tell them their wife was on line three. Blues, yellows, reds, and greens lined the floor beneath her feet, leading the way for each stranger to find their hurt or dead loved ones as they tripped and staggered around. Cara’s feet dangled a good inch above the ground as she sat all the way back in her waiting room chair.

Her eyes watered and her nose tingled as smoke drifted past her. The pleading from nurses echoed through Cara’s ears as they begged her mom to step outside if she was going to smoke. Her mom walked away and found another wall to lean against until a different nurse was forced to approach her. Cara had grown used to it over the years, but whatever was inside that rolled paper that day made her eyes sting with desperation for clean air. It was clear that the nurses didn’t have the heart to call security on her mother. They knew her mother would put up a fight if someone came to take her away. Cara just kept imagining what would happen when their boss showed up to find someone smoking in the waiting room. Other families had already cleared out. Nurses had shown them the way to other waiting rooms where there probably weren’t stubborn, inconsiderate people smoking in their presence. Making a scrunched-up face, Cara tried to get her mom to stop. She thought maybe her mother would stop smoking if it was bothering her own daughter. She was wrong. What did her opinion matter anyway? As Cara’s brother always liked to point out, she was only eleven.

Her fingers wrapped around the two dollars that were crumpled and scrunched deep within the tiny pockets of her jean shorts. Her dad had given the bills to her before he drove off earlier that morning. He didn’t like hospitals; his own brother had died in one. Cara couldn’t really blame him, but she was pretty sure the fact that he left was part of the reason her mom couldn’t stop smoking. The bills had dried out since he gave them to her that morning; they had rested in his clammy palms the entire drive over and were fairly damp then. Unfolding them with a nice crinkling sound, she jumped down off of the seat. Her mom was too busy pulling a new cigarette out of her pack to notice her leave, so Cara didn’t bother to tell her. As her feet shuffled across the length of the floor, she saw the nurse who had just begun her shift. She glanced up with a sour face thanks to the stenchy cloud Cara’s mom was creating. Cara slid her beat-up sneakers across the multi-colored floor until she reached the vending machine.

She pressed B-112 on the machine and watched a bag of Cheetos fall to the bottom, most likely breaking a few of the crunchy morsels in the process. The scent of stale cheese-puffs filled her nose, mixing with the smell of smoke that lingered in her nostrils. Sticking her hand in the bag, she strode back to her seat filled with a calming sensation. Her mouth watered, anticipating the cheesiness that usually grabbed the attention of all of her tastebuds just from the scent.

The Cheetos would help her forget.

Forget the fight with Jordan that morning and forget the spanking from their dad that of course ensued afterwards. But she couldn’t forget the crash that happened that day as they began their summer vacation.

*

“Let go of me,” she said in her extended eleven-year-old squeal as she tried to shake off her brother. He was trying to keep her from running away from him. The moment that he gave up on an argument was the same moment Cara would decide to go tell whichever parent was sitting inside that he had started it. He didn’t want that. He was tired of being spanked by their dad. Fifteen is too old to be spanked and it was getting embarrassing for both of them.

“We should go inside and help mom with dinner,” he said, attempting to distract her. Cara paused for a moment to consider this. She questioned what was for dinner, since that usually played a role in whether or not she wanted to help out. Jordan told her that he wasn’t sure but that it was probably along the lines of some kind of stew since he had seen their mother unloading the groceries earlier that morning; he was still trying to prevent her from running into the house with the wrong intentions of getting them in trouble.

“No. Let go of me. I’m not going anywhere with you.” Cara managed to wiggle her way out of Jordan’s loose grasp and took a few steps back. They were face to face, but Jordan was clearly the taller one, with a good foot or more on her four-foot-five-inch stature. She tried to look intimidating, but she knew it wouldn’t work – not since his growth spurt. “You’re the worst. I wish you weren’t my brother! I wish you weren’t in my life at all. I hate you!” Cara’s voice bubbled out of her mouth as fast as it could. She didn’t like yelling at people and doing so always brought tears to her eyes, but she couldn’t let her brother see she was crying. He always made fun of her when she cried. She ran past him, brushing against the soft, red t-shirt that hung low on his arm since the width of his shoulders was nowhere near that of their dad’s. He had grown out of a lot of his clothes lately and had taken to wearing some of their dad’s old shirts. She nearly tripped up the marble steps to the front door, but kept rushing forward until she heard the screen door swing and click shut behind her.

*

Stuffed into the left side of the backseat, Cara was surrounded by bags of various colors and fabrics – everyone’s luggage packed tightly between her and Jordan. It was her turn to pick the music, so she started pressing buttons on her mom’s iPod Touch, which her mother got as a gift from her sister a year ago, but still didn’t know how to use properly. Music flooded into the car through the speakers. It wasn’t anything Cara recognized, but she enjoyed being in control of the music – it meant for once, Jordan wasn’t.

She glanced up to watch as her family pulled out of the driveway and then went back to pressing buttons.

“--MY GOD!!” Cara opened her eyes in the midst of her mother’s screaming and readjusted her neck, gripping it suddenly as a sharp pain spread beneath her skin. All she could see was a blur of vibrant reds and oranges in front of them as the smell of smoke wafted under her nose long enough to make her cough. Her eyes adjusted. People nearby were tapping on windows, trying to mouth to us that we needed to get out of the car. Cara looked over at her mom who was staring at her husband who was staring into the backseat, unable to take his eyes off of Jordan’s seat.

Applying pressure to her neck, Cara glanced next to her, where Jordan was no longer sitting comfortably beside her. Crushed from the accident, Jordan’s door was pushed inward, taking up half of his seat, the window was smashed, and he was only partly inside the car at this point. Her mother couldn’t move but mumbled to Cara not to look at him. “Look away, honey. Look away.”

Sirens blared as they rushed through the streets. Blues and reds spun somewhere nearby, blinding her for a few moments. Constant blinking cleared her vision as she glanced back toward Jordan. Everything was silent. Her mom’s voice couldn’t break through it and neither could the shouts from the people outside of the car that were trying to get them out. Something shiny glinted in the reflection of her tearing eyes. It was Jordan’s keychain: “243JED” engraved in titanium. It must have fallen out of his pocket at some point during the crash. If only he had been wearing his seatbelt.

Their mom and dad had spent a lot of time designing that keychain. They wanted something sentimental and meaningful for his birthday, but couldn’t afford anything overly extravagant. “243” was the number of letters in each word of “We Love You,” and “JED” were his initials: Jordan Eric Donovan. He had thought it was cheesy when they first gave it to him, and while he would have never admitted it, he loved that keychain. Cara wrapped her fingers around it and never let go.

~*~

Smoke fills my nose again as if I am back at that scene with voices once again surrounding me, making it impossible to stop the tears from running down my cheeks. It had been years since I had thought about the events of that day. Jordan’s face flashes into my mind every day, but I’ve always tried to block out the car accident. My mind had blocked out Jordan’s voice – until now, anyway. Now it was as if he was standing right in front of me, pleading me not to get us in trouble yet again.

I lean forward to pull a tissue out of the box on the coffee table and dab at the tears that are trickling down my face. I hear a yelp, readjust the frames on my face, and glance up to see Gracie dragging Ralphie through the living room like he was her own personal toy.

“Gracie, honey. You have to be careful with Ralphie. Hold him like you hold your baby dolls.” I am surprised by the composure and strength that resonates in my voice. Gracie readjusts her hold on the new puppy and turns around to face me with a big grin on her face. The smile quickly fades as she saw the box that was on the table in front of me.

She takes a step backwards with Ralphie still clutched tightly against her chest, his paws hanging limp and loose in the air. “Uh oh,” she says.

I look down at the box to match her gaze. “No, honey, it’s okay. Come here for a second. Why don’t you let Ralphie go?”

Gracie nearly lies down on the floor in order to place him gently on the carpeting – something we had been working on all week with her. Then, shuffling her feet over to the couch she sits down next to me. I pick up the box and put it on the couch between us. She looks up at me and then slides her eyes down to the dusty box. Realizing she was too afraid to look through it, I stick my hand in and pull out a drawing of Tigger from Winnie the Pooh, handing it to her. She clutches it in both of her hands, as though it was the most important thing she has ever held.

“Jordan drew that for me when I was a little older than you. I was probably about six at the time,” I say, clearing my throat. I put my hand on my daughter’s back and rub it gently.

“Uncle Jordy?”

“Yes, Uncle Jordy.”

“Why this, though, mommy?” Gracie looked up at me.

“Well, because Tigger was mommy’s favorite when she was your age.” I gave her a weak smile. “Your grandma and grandpa helped him with it. It was my birthday present that year.”

“Oh.” Gracie went back to staring at Tigger. “Can I keep it?”

My voice catches. It has been over ten years since I have seen this drawing, but at the same time, Gracie knew very little about her uncle and was probably curious. Charlie had always thought Jordan was a sore subject to bring up, so he made sure Gracie never mentioned him around me. He had good intentions, but it hurt just as much anyway. There was only so much Charlie knew about the situation. We had met nearly twenty years after the accident and by then, I had locked most of it deep inside me – far away from casual conversation.

“Sure, honey. But let’s put it up on your wall so it doesn’t get hurt, okay?”

“Okay.” Gracie smiled and jumped off of the couch, racing into the kitchen to show her dad the new picture she had acquired. I picked the box up and placed it back on my lap, flipping through it as delicately as possible. I could hear Charlie in the kitchen telling Gracie how cool the drawing was and to go in her room to decide which wall to hang it on. She probably told him what I said about keeping it safe.

Something was hidden in the corner of the box. Picking it up, I run my fingers over the engraving just as I had all those years before and wrap my fingers around it, gripping it tightly.

“You okay?” Charlie sits next to me now, placing his hand on my arm sympathetically, like those nurses tried to do all those years ago, but this time she welcomes it.

“Yeah,” I say, as Ralphie yelps and leaps into my lap, knocking the box out of my hands. Charlie catches it before it topples to the floor. “Thank you,” I say, burying my hands deep into Ralphie’s soft coat. “I just miss him.” Charlie squeezes my arm, kisses my cheek, and gets up. Picking up the letter, he goes to return the box to the closet. I curl back onto the couch, watch the rain pour down against the windows, and bury my face in Ralphie’s fur, rubbing the titanium between my fingers.

Unrelatable (Short Story - Nonfiction)

1-10 has never been never my scale. The unnerving pain that either felt like sharp needles digging deep into my stomach, millions of knots filling it, or sharp shooting pains that resembled what I believed it would feel like to be shot in the stomach could never be restricted to a 1-10 pain scale. Clearly 1-100 wouldn’t be realistic either; so I settled on 1-20 for most scenarios.

Crohn’s Disease belongs to a group of conditions known as Inflammatory Bowel Disease (IBD) and is a chronic inflammatory condition of the gastrointestinal tract. IBD incorporates both Crohn’s Disease and Ulcerative Colitis, which are two entirely different conditions – although they are often lumped together. They differ depending on what part of the gastrointestinal tract they affect. For example, Ulcerative Colitis affects the colon (large intestine) and Crohn’s Disease affects the small intestine. Most websites that take the time to define these two diseases specify where in the gastrointestinal tract the inflammation occurs – but this is where the descriptions get tricky. Crohn’s Disease is different for just about every individual. While the most common cases are called Ileocolitis and Ileitis, which both affect the ileum (the last portion of the small intestine), there are at least three other forms of the disease, and each form has a different list of symptoms that might not be entirely accurate for each individual living with it.

March through October. Roughly eight long months of scrambling parents, running to bathrooms, and applying as much pressure to the upper left part of my stomach as possible. No one knew what was going on, but no one wanted to know more than my parents. Watching me dart from the table and run to the bathroom in fear of getting sick each time I ate any type of food, my parents pondered the thought of anorexia nervosa or bulimia nervosa. Looking back on it, they’ve told me that they were just trying to be realistic – considering every possibility since they couldn’t figure out what was going on. The doctors weren’t helping much in the beginning either.

In August I weighed myself for the last time during my diagnosis process. I was at the lowest I can remember ever being: 77 pounds at age twelve. My dad tends to describe this summer in a few different ways, but his favorite always being that he was able to nearly wrap his hand around my upper arm twice. I hadn’t had food pass through my mouth in months. Food hurt me. My body saw it as the enemy and changed my perception of it from something I needed to survive to something I needed to avoid at all costs.

Gastroduodenal Crohn’s Disease. This is basically what I have. It’s a form of the disease that involves the stomach and the duodenum, which is the first ten inches of the small intestine. Typically, people living with this type of Crohn’s Disease suffer from nausea, weight loss, loss of appetite, and if the narrow segments of the bowel are obstructed, they experience vomiting as well. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?

This being said, if anyone looks up Crohn’s Disease for themselves, the typical symptoms are: diarrhea, fever and fatigue, abdominal pain and cramping, blood in stool, mouth sores, reduced appetite, and weight loss. My symptoms? No desire to eat, skeletal appearance due to drastic weight loss, surging and writhing abdominal pain and cramping, inability to function in my daily life due to loss of energy, depression, and the mouth sores that I’ve spent a lot of time trying to forget. The mouth sores that are often associated with Crohn’s Disease are basically ulcers inside your mouth, similar to the ones that would be found throughout your gastrointestinal tract. Fun, right?

On top of all of that, Crohn’s Disease is an autoimmune disease. It chronically fights itself. It views itself, food, and medications as foreign objects and tries to fight against them, eventually destroying itself. Because my immune system overreacts and works too hard, I now no longer have one. If I move away from you when you cough or sneeze on the bus, in a class, or at a party – don’t take it personally. I can only fight myself; I can’t fight off you.

My mom’s voice would often wake me up at 3:00 in the afternoon. The soothing hums would waft through the open doorway of my bedroom. This had become a regular occurrence. She’d wake me up in fear of me sleeping the entire day away and then not sleeping later that night, which was never actually a problem for me. Six months of not having anything to eat and my body was rebelling. It had no energy and was punishing me by not allowing me to live. She’d wake me up and invite me out into our living room to join the rest of my family to watch television – or something of the sort.

I’d drag myself out of bed, force my body down the hall limb by limb until I arrived at the smaller of the two couches in my living room. Dropping myself onto the worn-out leather cushions, it was a matter of minutes before I was asleep again. That summer, a lot of people told me I’m cute when I sleep.

There is no known cause of Crohn’s Disease. Recent research has been suggesting that the cause might be due to hereditary, genetic, and/or environmental factors – some research is even suggesting that it is the interaction amongst all of these factors that contribute to the development of the chronic, inflammatory condition. My father has always had stomach problems. He’s borderline for the diagnosis. Basically, he has all the symptoms but receives none of the treatments. Two of my aunts have it as well.

Another interesting feature of Crohn’s Disease that seems to be causing many scientists and doctors to be scratching their heads, is the fact that this disease is more prevalent in a specific Jewish population from Eastern Europe known as Ashkenazi Jews. Something to do with inbreeding or incest within ancestors. I’m not entirely sure, but I am Jewish, so I suppose this affects me one way or another. So despite there being no known cause for the disease, scientists are attempting to focus on genetics and hereditary qualities. In the meantime, they only seem to be able to diagnose people based on symptoms and signs of inflammation.

Nine years ago, when I was twelve years old, my doctors were still trying to figure out what was going on inside me. Once they determined it was some form of inflammation, they started me on Prednisone – a steroid. This medication has saved my life various times, but this first one is the most prominent in my mind. After a couple of months on these pills everyone could see a difference. Granted, I still wasn’t gaining any weight, but I had more energy than I knew what to do with. I’d wake up incredibly early in the morning during my winter vacation from middle school, make my mom coffee (five cups), empty the dishwasher, finish the laundry that we had probably put in the night before, mop the floors, scrub the counters, dust the television, and sit down to start my book reports that had been assigned for the break. I remember that vacation more vividly than the entire summer I was sick. My dad was ripping up the carpet throughout our house and self-installing a wooden floor. It looked great, but because of the work involved in setting wooden floors, all of our living room furniture was in our kitchen. I remember jumping over couches and maneuvering my way around televisions and back again, just because I could. I had the energy for it. I could get up and walk without falling over and I could stay awake without someone constantly propping me up throughout the day.

After months of being on the steroids, I began to look like a chipmunk. Friends asked if I had had teeth pulled. People stopped saying I looked great. I had not only gained the weight back that I had lost, but I added to it. As much as the Prednisone saved my life, the teenage girl in me will always hate this medication for how it altered my body at a time when I was already self-conscious of my appearance.

The medication list for Inflammatory Bowel Diseases is constantly growing. I suppose this is a good thing, because it means that people are still researching and trying to discover new treatments – but in reality it’s because it’s necessary. When I was first diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, my doctors looked directly in the eyes of a naïve twelve year old, and told me that no one dies from the disease. Well, I say bullshit to that.  If those statistics are accurate, it’s only because no one was diagnosed with it at the time of their death. Had I gone on for another month or two of my life without eating, I would not be here right now. So, bullshit. There is no way that no one has ever died from Crohn’s Disease. Thanks a lot for trying to reassure younger-me, but you just made older-me angry instead.

Prednisone, Imuran, Mercaptopurine, Methotrexate, and Humira. Do these mean anything to you? They work to reduce inflammation and to return my body to a state of remission. At a point in my life, that didn’t mean anything to me. In fact, at one point after I had been on one for awhile, I decided on my own that I was healthy again and I didn’t need these medications anymore. I stopped taking them. I’d quietly throw each pill out every night and place a napkin or a tissue on top of it in the trash to make sure my parents never found out. But they did. Because I stopped being healthy. Months passed and my blood tests results began to decline drastically, and my doctor began following up to see if I was still taking my medicine. I wasn’t. But I tried to keep lying for awhile. I remember sitting on the brown, worn-out couch in between both of my parents the day that I finally told them. I never said anything. I just nodded my head when they asked. Tears rolled down my face, making a plop sound when they landed on the leather next to me.

X-rays, blood tests, upper GI (gastrointestinal) scans, endoscopies, colonoscopies, dye infusion scans – the examinations went on and on, because each test only reaches a certain part of a person’s body. My inflammation was and is in my duodenum. Endoscopies only reach into your stomach and colonoscopies don’t go much further than the beginning of your colon. Upper GI scans require the patient to drink Barium, a chalky liquid that is used to outline one’s entire digestive tract to make it easily viewable through special x-rays. I’ve had to drink this stuff twice. The first time it took me about three hours to get through one bottle (of the three I had to drink). I cried. It tasted awful, I was in an obnoxious amount of pain, and even my mom couldn’t help me feel better. What was worse is that none of these tests showed anything. Being poked and prodded for months did me no good, besides develop bruising up and down my arms and across my torso. I still had no answers. After months of testing, my doctor finally starting treating me. They diagnosed me without 100% proof of the disease, but based on my symptoms, they knew they had to act soon. And as a twelve-year-old, I couldn’t care less. I just wanted them to make the pain go away.

That summer. When no one knew what was going on with me. When no one knew what to do to help me. It was 95 (DEGREES) outside. I wore a sweatshirt. Baggy clothes were all that I owned. Pant sizes went down a bit, but I never got out of my pajama pants, so it didn’t seem to affect my wardrobe at all. Everything hung off of me as if I purposefully meant to buy them to be too big. It made me look sicker than I actually was. No one knew that was possible.

The majority of my life has been spent receiving suggestions from people who believe they understand and know better about what I’ve gone through and continue to go through.. Hearing comments of, “You look great!” when I’ve lost fifty pounds in a timespan of a month isn’t helpful. Having people suggest that I try to diet or eat differently and then maybe, just maybe, my stomach won’t have these “problems” anymore, isn’t something I can continue to nod along with for much longer. Being told that my face looked like I had my wisdom teeth pulled out just yesterday, when in fact I had been on seven months of corticosteroids to help stabilize my body and reduce the inflammation, just furthered the self-conscious thoughts that ran through my head on a day to day basis. “You’re so lucky! I wish I could lose weight that easily,” is possibly one of the worst comments I’ve received and it was met with a blank stare.

Going away to school, my parents had many worries when it came to my health. Telling my roommate about my pain scale only seemed to frighten her.

“Should I contact your mom?”

“Only if it’s really bad,” I told her.

“So on a 1-10 scale, when should I call her?”

“Not 1-10. More like 1-20. And when it’s over a 17. I can handle it up to a 17,” I explained. Last semester I hit a 17. But I didn’t tell her. Hiding it is what I’ve, inadvertently, been trained to do.

Crohn’s Disease is not a relatable condition. I could spend hours telling you about the pain that I’ve gone through and the specific moments that I remember, but the truth is – even other people with Crohn’s Disease won’t understand, because the condition truly is unique to each individual. I’m lucky: mine isn’t nearly as severe as many others that I’ve read about and met over the years. But the level of pain that I associate as my normal everyday experience cannot be compared to your two days of food poisoning. My normal might be someone else’s pain level of a 6 or a 7 on their 1-10 scale. But I have no way of knowing their interpretations of pain, either. All I know is that I spent my teenage years hugging trashcans and experimenting with (doctor-approved) medications and crying myself to sleep at night asking God – a God I’m not even 100% sure I believe is up there – “Why me?” because I truly did not understand why living meant having to endure so much pain.

The Key to Candyland (Revised Short Story)

My heart started pounding and my breathing lessened to a hum the moment I realized what I was facing. Since moving here five years ago, I had tried to maneuver my way past the locked door to our unfinished basement that my dad never failed to latch and bolt shut. I had always wondered what was behind that door. Why was it so important to keep it locked up? Why had my father gone to such lengths to move it here to our house in Georgia from our old house in Kansas – and before that Nevada – separate from the rest of our belongings each time. I always tried to finagle my way into the basement, or get answers out of him directly, but he never budged. But this was the last thing I expected to find. The bolt was supposed to be latched, but for the first time it wasn’t. My dad had been in a rush all morning after getting a call for some important interview, causing him to forget to close the door completely. All those years of wondering, questioning, missing out – she couldn’t believe it; the room was full of dust, hard-packed sludge, and boxes.

As I walked further into the cave-like basement, glimpses of the pictures that were scattered across the ground caught my eye. Ralphy. I hadn’t thought about Ralphy in years, but his face always jogged the same memory: endless games of Candyland. I never won, except for once. It’s the last memory I have of him.

I sat down on the cold, dirt floor in the collection of dust and tried to remember my brother using the pictures that surrounded me. He had been my best friend. There isn’t a picture of me without him by my side. We were only one year apart in age, and my last memory with him was at age four, but he was five. It was the only time I won a game of Candyland against him. And he had cheered me on. I faintly heard Ralphy’s far away chants: Go Clara!

It had all been right under my feet the entire time. Everything from before; everything from my past; everything from the first four years of my life. Dad told me there were no secrets between us, but even that was a lie.

The panoramic view of my early childhood surrounded me in that moment. That locked door held all the secrets of my life. It’s been thirteen years since I’ve seen Ralphy. Thirteen years of lies and deceit and all of the answers were through a two-inch, nineteenth century wooden door for the past five years and locked up elsewhere before that. How could he have done this to me? How could my father lie to me like this?

Thirteen years ago, everything in my life changed without me even knowing. My mother and older brother had gone out one day and never returned. As far as my father told me, there had been a car accident and they hadn’t survived. I forgot about that. I had managed to forget most of those details. Until today when the most dramatic and painful memories penetrated my forgotten past that had been blocked for years, thanks to my father.

I turned my focus back to my surroundings, trying to forget the “memories” that were no longer blatantly true. Parts of my life that I didn’t even remember were reliving themselves right before me. I don’t understand. What am I even looking at anymore? My heart raced, beating in disbelief, unsure of what to do next. My father lied to me. About all of it. I looked around and I knew that I couldn’t stay there and dig through the past – my forgotten past – for long, but after thirteen years of secrets, I didn’t have the willpower to turn away.

Footsteps overhead seemed to get closer. Did I close the door behind me? My heart throbbed as I waited. I sat there and debated whether or not I was willing to get caught or if it was worth it to discover more of this underground chamber – this extension of my mother and brother. Everything around me resembled them. Everything around me was them. The footsteps above me passed over the entrance and began to fade off into the distance. My heart went back to its new pace – a fluttering that had become constant upon discovering the slightly ajar door.

Stumbling in the dust to get up, I finally began to walk around. I ran my hands along the decrepit tables that weren’t far from collapsing beneath the stacks of boxes that rested on them. I took a deep breath and decided to open one of the worn-out boxes. It was resting on the corner of the table closest to the entrance and the flaps of the old box weren’t completely folded closed. Billowing with years of neglect, the box popped open revealing pictures that were stuck to one another, grimy and discolored. I worked through the piles of faded memories slowly and attempted not to ruin them as I pulled them apart and gave them each a glance over. Stuck to the side of the box there was a letter. Opening its crusty creases, it read:

Dear Clara,

If you’re reading this, that means you now know. I guess you now  understand why I kept the door locked all this time. Also, if you’re reading this, I’m sure I’m gone by now … I’ve been very protective of this room and have done my best to keep you from finding it while I was around. I wish I could protect you from the truth forever, but you deserve to know what really happened after all of these years, I guess I won’t ever be able to explain that to you completely, but I hope you don’t blame me.

I’m sorry I kept the truth from you. I’m sorry I kept Gineene and  Ralphy from you – the memories of them. I never intended to hurt you, but I couldn’t let you discover the truth, Clara. There was never a car accident – and I’m sorry I could never be a good enough father to you to tell you this to your face: Your mother did not hit that truck as the papers led you to believe…as I led you to believe. I’m sorry I can’t bring myself to tell you the complete truth even in writing, but I can show you.

Inside the envelope where you found this letter, there is a key. I’m sure you’ll figure out what it is for.

I’ve always loved you, Clara, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father you needed and deserved. I hope one day you’ll understand.

Try to forgive me,

Dad

Rivers of water trickled down my cheeks as I tried to understand what his letter meant: How could they have not been in a car accident? What else happened to them? Where are they? Why hide everything if he had just wanted me to find it when he died anyway? Is it that difficult to face?

I realized I hadn’t found the letter in an envelope. Looking back in the box, I noticed a small crevice in the corner. I gave the box a shake and the key popped out. The key was too small to be for a door and it resembled the one I used to use for my jewelry box when I was younger. The key being hidden instead of placed in the envelope as he had said it would be, was typical of my father. He had raised me to look for the unexpected and to earn knowledge just as he had done throughout his life as a reporter.

Placing the key in the shirt pocket that rested lightly against the left side of my chest, I put the slightly damp letter in my jeans’ back pocket and continued to look through the boxes. They were stacked three or four high all across the room. Some were titled “Home Videos,” while others were labeled, “Pictures.” Without a VCR available, there wasn’t much I could do with the videos, but upon opening the box, I realized they were all dated from before I was four-years-old – before the so-called “accident.” I closed the boxes and put them back where I found them, before I turned to the photographs.

There were pictures of Ralphy – pictures I had spent years searching for and wished I had found years ago, were now right in front of me. Photographs of me hugging my older brother, being held by my mother, holding onto my dad’s pant leg, never wanting to let go. All of these memories flooded my vision. My father told me everything had been destroyed and that he couldn’t handle looking at their faces every day after the accident. There was only one picture he kept: a professionally taken photograph of the four of them that hung on the wall in the hallway upstairs. He told me he destroyed the rest of the memories lessen the pain; for coping reasons. But why lie about that? Why hide all of the memories?

Footsteps overhead sounded again, except this time doors slammed and things fell. My heart began to race when I realized that it was getting late and I hadn’t checked in with my dad since that morning when I had left for school. I heard every door in their condo-sized house open with a gust and slam with anxiety. After five minutes of the consistent slamming, the footsteps died down and I knew I was safe downstairs for now. Pulling out my silver phone, I saw three missed calls from my dad and the phone shimmered, telling me it was 9:42 P.M. – practically three hours late for dinner. I slid the phone open and found my dad’s number in the contact list and dialed.

I waited through the ringing while staring at the earth-packed ceiling of the secret vault.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“CLARA! I’ve been worried sick. Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’m fine. I’m sorry I never called you... I got distracted. I’m at Sasha’s house. Can I stay the night?”

“I don’t know Clara... I haven’t seen you all day. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m fine. Please? We’re... we’re working on a project for school. It’d help our grade if I could stay longer...”

“I guess...”

“Thanks, Dad! I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Night.”

I hung up with a click and took a deep breath, thankful that my part of the lying was over for now. I hated lying to her dad – as ironic as that may seem now. He has always been there for me – or so I thought. It wasn’t such a horrible thing to fib a little bit this time. After all, I was supposed to be at Sasha’s; I just never went.

Pocketing my phone, I remembered the key in my shirt pocket. What truth could this thing show me? I closed the box of photographs of Ralphy and took a few steps forward, maneuvering my way through the maze of boxes and tables, until a gleaming piece of metal in the corner caught my eye. Lodged between two dusty stacks of boxes was a briefcase.

I brushed my fingers through the inches of dust that caked the outside of the briefcase and let out an exasperated, choking cough after yanking it out of its hidden nook. Turning the briefcase over, I noticed it was locked shut. The rusty piece of metal had begun to feel at home in my shirt pocket, but I pulled it out and placed it in the reddish-brown keyhole that had begun to chip away from age. With a sharp twist, the buckles released and a gap manifested between the top and the bottom of the briefcase. I slipped my calloused fingers into the gap and pried the briefcase open with a ruthless tug.

Newspaper clippings fluttered to the floor. Ones that I had never seen before. They were all about my mom and Ralphy. Reaching for one specific, dog-eared article that was still on regular printer paper, I read:

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – MARCH 1998: Local family faces death. Mother and wife, Gineene Fitzpatrick, 29, was driving with her son, Ralph Fitzpatrick, 5, on Tuesday, March 17th towards the local petting zoo when an oncoming truck strayed into the lane, hitting the 1995 Subaru in a head-on collision. Gineene Fitzpatrick was killed instantly upon impact. Ralph Fitzpatrick was declared dead at Barton Memorial Hospital, due to severe trauma to the head. Father and husband, Roger Fitzpatrick, remains in his Kingsbury home with daughter, Clara.

Fitzpatrick? But our last name is Fitzgerald… It didn’t make sense. The byline was my father’s name, but as Roger Fitzpatrick. The heading was directed towards the Kings Journal as a submission for publication. But this doesn’t make sense. He wrote in the letter that there had been no accident. If that was true, then why would he have written this article? Fidgeting through the other papers, different headlines filled my sight: “The Truth Exposed!”, “On the Run”, and “Truth Is Out! Daughter Knows Nothing!” What are these? I picked up an article with the heading: “Father and Daughter Live In Denial” and read:

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – MAY 1998: Local family exposed. Father, Roger Fitzpatrick, submitted an article to the Kings Journal in March describing the fatal events in his family. Upon further investigation, it has been discovered that the article was fabricated to conceal the truth from friends and family. There was no accident. Due to the inability to locate death certificates for the supposedly deceased family members, Gineene and Ralph Fitzpatrick, Roger Fitzpatrick provided the Kings Journal with reluctant commentary on the matter.

“On Ralph’s birthday (5), Gineene took him out for ice cream and a trip to the zoo,” said Fitzpatrick. After two days had passed with no sign of Gineene and Ralph, Roger Fitzpatrick had immediately filed a Missing Person’s Report – a document that was found during the investigation. Ralph has yet to be found.

“Six days after she first left, Gineene returned home, but she refused to explain where she had been and why she returned without Ralph.

“Gineene confessed to taking an ‘extensive detour’ that day, but wouldn’t tell me where. I don’t know where she left my son or if he’s okay,” said Fitzpatrick.

Gineene refused to disclose any information of Ralph’s whereabouts, although police have reason to believe he was brought out of state. Gineene has since been located and arrested.

“I wrote the false story so my daughter, Clara, could grow up with no hard feelings towards her mother,” Roger Fitzpatrick told the Kings Journal.

Mouth hanging wide open, I finished the article and let it slip between my fingers. I can’t believe it. The real truth was hidden in a briefcase? Flipping through other articles, I realized they were all the same: Mother Abandons Child – Child Still Missing. They were all consistent in what happened – except for one. Going back, I found the article titled, “The Truth Exposed!” and read:   

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – JULY 1998: Four months ago former reporter, Roger Fitzpatrick, attempted to publish a false account of the whereabouts of his wife and son. After investigation, Gineene Fitzpatrick faces charges of child abandonment, neglect, and child endangerment. Ralph Fitzpatrick remains missing. Gineene Fitzgerald faces 5-10 years in prison.

How could he have done this to me? The words from his letter flashed before my eyes: “I couldn’t let you discover the truth Clara” … “I can show you” … “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father you needed.”

At the bottom of the pile of newspaper clippings was a ragged and taped piece of rustic paper. Smoothing out the creases, words came into focus before me. Legal documents. My name scrawled across it in different forms. Fitzpatrick. Fitzgerald. Attached to the back was a near copy, but instead of “Clara,” it read “Roger.” He legally changed our names. To hide us. To hide me. From knowing about it all. Tears rolled down my freckled skin. Slipping down to the grimy floor, I wrapped my arms around my knees and pulled my legs close to my chest as I rested my head in my lap. What am I supposed to do now?

Moments passed. I sat on the cruddy, packed-down floor, leaning against a knobby dirt wall. Tears ran down my face, moistening the patches of earth that were scattered between various shoe imprints in the soil. I rested my head against my knee and curled up on the floor, trying to shake the awful lies that surrounded me. A gasp sounded from across the room. My father stood across from me, tears in his eyes as he looked at the pictures and articles that surrounded me on the ground. I just stared.