I’ve found that having a chronic illness is much like losing someone very close to you. People will say they understand your pain, they’ll tell stories about how they’ve gone through it with their cousin’s aunt, and they’ll give advice, but no one will truly get what you’re feeling unless they go through it themselves. Some people affected by illness will draw into themselves and not talk to anyone for weeks or even months, save for a few close relatives and friends they can trust. When you’re already dealing with pain on the inside, it’s hard to want to interact with things going on in the outside world. At first, people will be very concerned. They’ll pray for you, they’ll weed your garden, they’ll come by and check up on you, and they’ll make sure you’re never alone. But eventually, people stop bringing by dinners, they stop asking how you’re doing and how they can help. They don’t offer to clean your house, pick up groceries, or run errands. They’ll offer the same friendly wave and hello they offer everyone else and continue on their way. Others around you won’t feel the constant ache and absence of the life you once knew that you feel. People will say it gets easier, although that’s a lie. Things never get easier. You just get stronger, you learn new ways to cope, to distract yourself.

The hurt and pain that can come from a chronic illness, the harsh reality of it, tends to drive people away. This can either be because they don’t want to/can’t handle it, or because they just again, do not understand. Whenever you see a movie about an illness, you don’t see the time it’s spread out over, you just see the devastating effects in a matter of minutes and eventually, an end within two hours. Movies aren’t going to show you the day to day life, the life of someone who deals with pain and suffering for 30+ years, the suffering that doesn’t seem to end. When you lose someone you love, you feel their absence everywhere. In the sunny days where you used to go outside and swing on the play set and in the gathering storm clouds when you used to stay inside, pop popcorn and watch movies. Every time you write the number 17, their number on the basketball team, their face settles in your mind. You hear their laughter in the giggles all around you, you see their eyes in strangers, and you know Wednesday night will never be the same because they’re not there to go out with anymore. All of this is like having a chronic illness. You miss the life you once had, the person you once were. You don’t have the energy to go rock climbing anymore, you can’t go to the party on Friday night because you just finished a long, taxing treatment earlier in the day. You can’t plan activities because you’re already juggling school, doctor appointments, homework, family obligations, and whatever random curve ball your illness decides to throw at you. You become unreliable and people do not like unreliable.

In this way, chronic illness can take your life from you. You can become isolated, and often, you can feel like no one cares. But that’s where the key word in those phrases comes into play: “can.” You must fight to make sure chronic illness does NOT take your life from you. I promise you, someone does care. That’s one of the blessings that comes from chronic illness. You find out who will really be there in the tough times, the people who won’t run when things get hard. You start to cherish and love everything around you, like the breath that floods your lungs when you breathe deeply, because there have been times when you couldn’t. Through my illness, there have been rough times, for sure. Tears have been shed, hearts have been broken, and even dreams have been shattered. But you learn to rebuild and you rebuild with more firm and sure foundations with people you know will never leave and with dreams you know you can achieve. You find ways to remember the life you miss, but keep living the life you have. Instead of going out on Wednesday night, you stay in and play board games. Instead of being on the basketball team, you might coach or even simply just watch. You surround yourself with people you can learn to laugh with again, the ones who can make you smile even with tears running down your cheeks. Life is still beautiful, even with a chronic illness. It may be hard to see at times, but the beauty is still there.

So to everyone, wherever you are, whatever you’re struggling with, or if you are trying to support someone who is fighting, know that there is H.O.P.E (hold on, pain ends). You will still feel the ache of the life you once knew, but learn to cherish the life you have now. Hold on to the nights when your stomach pain comes from laughing so hard water squirts out your nose and not from your illness. Hold on to the days when you do go out with your friends, when you do triumph over your pain. Those moments will get you through the tears and the struggle because there will always be opportunities to have more of them. The light will always be there at the end of the tunnel, even if mist and fog clouds your vision, as long as you keep walking, as long as you keep fighting. You can do this. You can do hard things and you will win this fight. And you will never have to fight alone.  by Rachel Nielsen