The First Time I Cheated Death-Part 1

2011- One month after moving back to the U.S.

The day I flew back into La Guardia airport, nothing noteworthy happened. I watched the conveyor belt rotate around and around until my beat up, well-worn suitcase came out. When I left the baggage claim, I tried to appreciate the floor to ceiling windows. But I felt fuzzy headed from returning, the equivalent of my brain being congested instead of my nose.

That night, my first night “home,” I experienced a tearing sensation in my abdomen, like a stone dropped from the pit of my stomach downward. Must be from eating rice, I told myself. Grains and I had never gotten along, and I rarely ate them. 

The energy dropped out of my body even as I continued eating. Must be from being “home,” I thought. Maybe jetlag. Maybe re-acculturation. You’re not going to give into that feeling of depression because you want to be elsewhere. You’re going to start working next week. Power through.

I forced myself to eat at mealtimes to appear normal. My stomach became increasingly bloated. PMS that lasts all month? I asked myself. The rest of me was thin, lithe, muscular- but losing strength by the day.

A month later, I went hiking with friends. I struggled and panted despite the fact that the mountain wasn’t steep. I was embarrassed to admit how much I was struggling.

That month, it’d gotten progressively harder to get around. It was ironic, since I’d hiked over 500 miles before returning to the U.S. with the weight of my bag on my back. I’d returned feeling the fittest I’d ever felt.

What is wrong with you? I asked myself on the mountain. Get up! They’re waiting for you to keep hiking. 

The next week I started work. I ignored the dizziness, lack of hunger, and bloating stomach. I wore loose shirts to hide my puffy abdomen. The rest of me was thin and residually tan with expensive highlights and good makeup. If you looked closely, you might have seen how dark the circles underneath my eyes were. But no one was looking closely, and things appeared normal to everyone around me.

Then, one night, the discomfort became too intense to sleep. I writhed in my sheets, sweated profusely despite the fact that it was chilly out. Unable to control the sensation of burning and swelling and discomfort throughout my abdomen, I actually said out loud to myself, “This is what it feels like to die.”

But I popped out of bed the following morning when my alarm clock went off, forcing my limbs to move in spite of feeling leaden.  Because that’s always been my best coping strategy: move forward in spite of everything.  It’s what I’ve observed family members over the course of my life do in spite of addiction or poverty or depression: force forward movement.

“Stacey, are you ok?” a co-worker said the next day. 

I kept my eyes forward and tried to steady myself.

“You’re swaying. Sit down,” she said.

“Is it ok if I just sit for a min-” I asked, as my coworker lunged across the room to catch my body as it teetered over. 

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