Whatever Doesn't Kill You, Makes You Stronger

There is nothing romantic about getting sick. At least that’s what I learned when I fell ill. In October, I started coughing and developed a bit of fever. I popped some Paracitamols and got a little better. The symptoms came back though and over the course of the next two months, my health got worse – not in a very obvious way, but a gradual deterioration. I started having headaches, I lost my appetite, I started getting bouts of dizziness. Of course, at the age of 20 you think the world is your oyster, and you think you can deal with anything that comes your way.


Everything rebellious you do is cool and taking care of yourself is a tedious task. To be fair, I did actually go to a couple of doctors here in London and they both felt it was either muscular pain (which was making it hard for me to breathe), or it was just some minor bacterial infection. It proved to be critical in my getting ill. After 3 months of this, I went to visit my mother in Geneva, and mothers being mothers, she immediately realised that I was sick and took me to the doctor. The doctor did a few tests (Ultrasound, CT scan, Chest X ray, Blood test) and diagnosed my problem as Pneumonia. It was a bit of a blow, but I figured that it could be tackled. I started on antibiotics, but after 15 days of no improvement, my mother finally took me to the hospital. This was a time when I used to be perpetually tired and all I did was to lie in the bed – sleep, sleep and sleep. I used to have night sweats and I would shiver early in the morning. My mother would valiantly try to warm me up, but did little to help. In the hospital, they did more tests and took a sample of my sputum. By then I had become scared of what was happening to me. They admitted me and after a day of keeping me there, one of the doctors came in and told me that I had Tuberculosis, and that it’ll take a minimum of six months to cure. In that moment, I did not realise what I had gotten into.


It has been close to six months since my treatment started. I spent the first two weeks in the hospital, recovering. It was a horrid time. Life suddenly stops. Everything you have been working on takes a back seat. You can only kill time in the hospital and believe me, it’s no fun. I tried to keep myself strong then, and I think for most parts I accomplished that. Even there, I did not realise the magnitude of the problem. My family was extremely supportive in those two weeks, and I realised it then that friends and lovers might come and go, but family stays with you in your darkest hour, in your weakest moment. After 19 years of awkwardness, me and my brother finally made peace in this situation and he truly behaved like an elder brother and supported my mother when she would find it hard to be positive. My father flew down from India to be with me. I missed about three weeks of my university and although we were afraid I might have to drop a year, fortunately that didn’t happen. In the hospital I started sending long emails to my friends and caught up with a lot of old ones. I don’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing – but I did fallout from a few of my “friends” and ex-crushes. I put friends in quotes because I understood then, that those who cannot be with me in my worst moment definitely do not deserve my best. After a long long time I finally got over a crush, what I thought was love.
I feel a lot better now, it doesn’t hurt when I take deep breaths – I don’t start coughing when I laugh and I am not contagious anymore. But the medicines continue, and so does the constant looming feeling that I’m still sick and I’m still recovering. I met a doctor who has been treating me from a very long time and is a TB specialist. He told me that the medicines might last for up to an year and that I’ll have some marks (or scars) on my lungs which will stay for, well, forever. And though he explained to me there and then that it won’t affect me in any way, and that I’ll turn out to be fine – I broke down as soon as he left. Somehow I always believed that this was a phase which will go away and I’ll be good, even if takes a long time. Somehow I never thought it’ll have a permanent effect on me. At 20, I didn’t want to get used to the imperfections in me. I still wanted to believe that I can do anything I want and that life is pretty much perfect. It sounds silly, but a broken heart or a fight with a friend sounds a lot less complicated than this. I don’t think I can blame anyone for the situation I’m in though. I was really really lax about my health, and I over-worked myself last few months before I was diagnosed. It’s funny how you take things for granted and don’t think about them till they’re not there anymore. After about 2 months or so, I felt very normal, and one day, I was about to miss a train, and I ran towards it, only to realise that it was too soon. I can’t run yet, my doctor told me that it will take some time to get my stamina back. In the context of life, this hopefully is still a minor setback; at least that’s what I tell myself. But it taught me a lot of things, and I truly believe whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. One has to live each moment to the maximum, not because life is too short, but because the moment that passes never comes back. I don’t think I can ‘not care’ about my health anymore. And while it really is for my best interest, I truly will miss drinking 2-3 cans of coke a day, having a lot of red bull to stay awake through the night, eating just one meal a day, or surviving on all kinds of junk. And to be honest, looking back at the 20 years I’ve lived so far, I don’t have regrets. I know that I have it in me to fight this through and hopefully emerge a stronger person.