My Pancreas and I

This piece is more of a need of expression and release. I know many of you wonderful people will understand.
 

I’ve always kind of guessed what could kill me. No, it’s not something dramatic or even sudden. It’s not anything that would put me on the front of papers, or alert the police, or even any emergency services. They know, I know. They aren’t brave enough to sit me down and say this is probably your death.

Probably.

One thing in life is you can never foresee the future. Despite gut instinct, there is no path laid out for you without something or someone that might cross lanes and end yours. I envy the people who have health. Never will I get jealous over money. I envy health. The one thing in my life that is uncertain.

Ever since I was a kid, I used to get most odd feeling late in the night, like my stomach was empty. I was empty. I felt like nothing, or even, I felt death or dying. I felt like I was on the borderline of living and being non-existent. I could never wrap my finger around that feeling, not till this paragraph. I can remember the emotion so well but I never explored it, I hadn’t figured out a name for it. But I couldn’t help but feel like I was unique and the only one that could feel it. I hated it. It made me hate myself or feel sorry for myself because I knew something was wrong with me.

I didn’t discover what, until I was 14. But I still think, that feeling I used to get so often is something to do with my illness, maybe an add-on.

From when I can remember I used to get severe stomachaches. Stomachaches that made me cry all night, no drug helped me relax, not even my mother stroking my hair or tickling my arm. She couldn’t help me, nothing did. It got to the point of exhaustion of crying did I ever fall asleep.  My stomach would burn; it felt like burning throughout my chest down to my lower stomach. It was excruciating. I couldn’t breath most of the time or I panted. I couldn’t move or I moved erratically. There was no in-between. I wanted to escape my body.

My earliest memory of this was 6 years old. So of course, it’s just a little girl who has a bad tummy. The doctor would give me a lollipop and some tablets and I’d be on my way. I’d be happy. It was just a bellyache. But it happened again and again and again. I cannot count the hours my mum and dad would stay up in the night with me trying to stop me crying. I admit it only lasted a night or the occasional day. I remember one time I was with my summer school playgroup and we were about to make cupcakes. But I got hot and sweaty and my stomach felt like it exploded, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t want people to know I was ill; I so desperately wanted to make cupcakes, be normal. But I couldn’t, I just sat in a corner and hugged my tummy so tight in hope it might stop the pain, not speaking to anyone.

From then on I don’t really remember getting any more pain. It vanished, so I forgot about it. When I was 14, I was in science class and I remember sitting there working and all of sudden my head felt light, I couldn’t swallow and heat radiated off of me. That’s when my stomach began to churn and the fire spread through me. One of my classmates asked,

“Emma, are you okay?” I didn’t realise how obvious I was. I was shaking and pasty white. I ran to the toilets and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like I was dying. My lips were white, my eyes were dark I looked horrendous. I was scared; I was in so much pain.

Eventually I was sent to hospital and at first, the doctors and nurses laughed at me asked me if I had started my period yet. I said no. They began to sign me off explaining me about the menstrual cycle. I was furious; I knew in my heart it was something else. I shouted,

“Just test me! Do your job.” I had upset the staff that day and embarrassed my parents, but I found out what curse I had been bestowed with. They took my bloods, urine samples, swab tests, anything. After a couple of hours a team came back to me and apologised for how unprofessional they had been and explained to me I had Pancreatitus.

Pancreatitus is a highly known alcoholic caused illness, which has taken many people into hospital and worst case has killed them, which usually occurs in Pancreatic cancer. It’s an extremely painful experience for a person. Being only 14 and at the most had a sip of shandy, there was no logical explanation of my series of random unprovoked attacks with this illness. They had never seen such high amylase level in a child. Usually, the pancreas should stay between the levels of 0-99. Mine was estimated over 1000. That was only a minor attack. I dread to think what a major attack felt like. I was described to having Idiopathic Pancreatitus meaning (Unknown reason for my illness.)

For years since, to the day, have my team of doctors and my surgeon who is now my friend, yet to come up with a solution as to why this happens to me. I’m now 20.

I hate my illness. Worst thing is, I don’t know anyone who understands, so I can’t talk about it. I can’t talk about the fact every time an attack comes on, I fear this might be worse than the last or how I feel like this is killing me each time it happens. Slowly chopping away at my life expectancy. It makes me sad. It makes me vulnerable. I have to be looked after when it happens. Not all my loved ones will be with me forever and I don’t know what to do.

I may come across as depressed in this text; I may even come across boring. But it’s the first time I’ve truly expressed my feelings about my burden. I’ve never had the chance to, like, moan about it. It’s very close to my heart.

I know I’m not the only one in the world with a problem. But like everyone else with one, I just ask myself, why me?

Why do I have to deal with this pain? I want to live a long healthy life. Not cut short by something I was born with, that is essential to my life. I suppose it’s ironic. How something that keeps you alive, could also kill you. I won’t let my dodgy pancreas stop me though.

It’s stressed to me that I mustn’t ever drink. But I have and I still do. I want to be as normal as possible, for however long it takes before I have to stop. Lately, I’ve been getting attacks, with periods without it shorter than the last. It’s slowly worrying me again. I know I should sort my act out, but I suppose I’m addicted to being normal and fun. I enjoy my life. I love my friends, family and my boyfriend. They will always be there for me thankfully. But it doesn’t stop me being scared of my potential painful death. I don’t feel the pain anymore. I mean, I feel it, but I’ve adapted. I can cope, just. I’m just hoping natural birth will be a breeze, that’s if I can have kids easily. I suppose I just need to live my life to best I can.

I’m starting to realise that I will never find out the reason why I have this or how to stop it. It’s practically incurable. So I have to endure it. I could not have it again for years to come. It could happen tomorrow. I can’t think about that anymore. As upset as I might be about it, I need to focus on quality of life. As worrying and stress is a known factor or provoker, if you like, to 1000’s of illnesses.

I suppose this is classed as an explanation, or even an insight to the massive chunk of my life that so few know about. Let alone know my feelings about it. In the end;

When life hands you lemons, make juice out of them. It’s easier to digest.