Personal Narrative: The Book Thief

“It could always be worse” my mother had reminded me. However, I could not hear her, for I was withering in pain on the sofa. Grabbing the blanket that was draped around me, as loudly as I could, I screamed into the throw. I had given up trying to fight the pain. Instead, I lied down onto my father’s lap. I surrendered. Placing my hand onto my cheek, I found it wet with tears. In an effort to lighten the mood, my brother announced that dinner was ready. Everyone left the room except for me. I stayed. Why? Food did not help the pain, nor did it worsen the pain, however I refused to eat. The pain had twisted my insides, so that thinking of food caused me to gag. I hardly ate anymore. It is so noticeable that one day my school counselor gently
asked if I had an eating disorder. Sometimes, I wished for an eating disorder rather than an unknown ailment. However, in retrospect, I am thankful for this experience; I was able to gain important wisdom from my monsters.
The next day I went to school where I did not talk during class, seldom spoke in the halls, and hardly conversed during lunch.
I used to be a very sociable person until the pain started. Now, I hardly spoke. Keeping to myself, I only talked to a few trusted friends. One way I would try to take my mind away from my pain was by reading. One day I started The Book Thief by Markus Zusak; reading about the character’s awful life during World War II stayed with me. During the next few months, I read many fiction novels. Revenge of the Witch by Joseph Delaney, The City of Bones by Cassandra Clare, and The Lost Hero by Rick Riordan were among my favorite YA novels. I am not sure why I chose to read. Maybe it comforted me to know there were worse situations in the world. Anyway, I had thought back to when the pain started. The earliest I could remember was about two years prior, however, the past six months had been excruciating. The pain was increasing: the frequency and the
intensity.
On the day of my colonoscopy and endoscopy, my newest doctor thought she had a solution to my pain. I was doubtful. There had been too many failed attempts so far. Realizing it was time for my procedure, the nurse wheeled me back to the operating room. As I breathed in the anesthesia, I fell into a deep sleep. After the procedure, when I reached full consciousness, my dad held my hand. My parents told me what was behind my misery: Crohn’s disease.
Symptoms of Crohn’s disease include: abdominal pain, cramping, diarrhea, loss of appetite, fever, weight loss, low iron, bloody stools, and fatigue. Crohn’s disease is incurable, however, it is manageable. In an effort to manage my disease, every eight weeks I travel to northern Atlanta where I receive a three hour Remicade infusion.
Through the help of my infusions, I hardly ever experience any pain anymore.
However, some unlucky days, the pain silently attacks. Ever since being diagnosed with Crohn’s disease my health has declined. In the past year, I have recently been diagnosed with Eczema. Also, about a year ago, I confessed to my parents that I was (and still am) depressed. I am now seeing a therapist for depression and anxiety; my doctor decided to prescribe me anti depressants. However, with a true-to-the-end-of-time quote, the late Malcolm Stevenson Forbes mentioned, “When things are bad, we take comfort in the thought that they could always get worse”. Through these experiences I have learned that my life could be worse. My books helped me to understand the monsters of the world and how my monsters, in comparison, are microscopic. Even though sometimes the voices in my head say otherwise, I am fortunate for my family. I am fortunate for my friends. I am fortunate for school. I am even fortunate for my health. Thankful for all that I have, I always remember that my health could be worse. These barriers will not end me. I have found the hope at the bottom of Pandora’s Box. I am
lucky.