Chapter 16 / The Handbook

Finding a Cure | Sophie

Did you wake up today feeling good? I hope so. Starting a day with a long satisfying stretch is one of life’s great pleasures. It’s easy to take for granted. Until one day you can’t.

Photo by Elias Maurer on Unsplash

In July of 2020, I contracted Covid. This was months before the vaccines were introduced and I was afraid for my life. I could feel the infection spreading in my lungs and spent every sequestered day with a growing fear— would I be one of the unlucky ones to die before treatment became available?

I was fortunate. My body fought off the virus. And when I awoke two weeks later to that miraculous feeling of well-being again, I knew the gift I’d been given. That stretch and a deep breath felt like a great luxury.

A pandemic strikes millions. If you’re among the stricken you can take some small comfort knowing that the scientific community is throwing everything it has into finding a cure. But what if you don’t know what’s making you sick? How will you get better? How do you hold on to hope?

Meet Sophie. She battled an unknown medical condition for years.

When she reached out to me it was already late October. She was not in a good place. With the EA deadline just days away, she was desperate for help in completing her application and adamant that she meet the early deadline. After reading her personal statement, I told her it needed to be reimagined and rewritten, that I would only be involved if she would change her applications to RA. We ended our first session uncertain as to whether we’d meet again.

When we spoke again a few days later she seemed more open to postponing. She had lived with the original essay for months and was tenacious in defending it but agreed it would be unwise to submit something that wasn’t ready.

Although I tried to be gentle with my criticism, there was no softening the hard truth. Her original draft came off as angry and self-pitying. Listing all the ways she had been misdiagnosed may have felt vindicating for her but it would win her no advocates. This was hard for her to hear. She felt unsupported. I assured her that her story could be salvaged and the result could be great.

You have to let some light in, I told her.

When she didn’t answer I asked her to describe her life before the onset of the syndrome.

Elementary school was the last time, she said.

Then write about that.

PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS | SOPHIE

GENUINE

FUNNY

HARD WORKING

LOUD

HIGH SELF EXPECTATIONS

IMPATIENT

SELF JUDGEMENTAL

KIND

With the EA deadline passed, we found our way. She unpacked the whole of it and she wasn’t wrong about how desperate things had gotten. She was frequently in tears recalling the grueling symptoms and the suspicion of doctors from whom she sought treatment. Over the next few weeks she began to write again. We outlined her story in a way that could work for her. It turns out there was light, plenty of it.

PERSONAL STATEMENT | SOPHIE

I wasn't myself.

I had lost control of my body. For over a year, I sat in the same cream colored medical office trying to get a definitive answer. It was always something different: I was a binge eater, I had exercise induced anorexia, it was all in my head, it was nothing at all. After years of contradictory advice, the doctor announced that she didn’t want to continue working with me. I hadn’t realized you can actually get fired by your doctor.

I had finally gotten my diagnosis. I was unfixable.

I had always been a happy, outgoing kid. Loud and proud, my parents said. The beauty about elementary school was that it didn't matter if you were popular or looked a certain way, everyone had fun. Dance battles on the yard, ugly art projects and doing the school play; everyone was celebrated for their talents, not put down or shamed for doing whatever interested them. We were free; no judgment, just a bunch of kids being kids. Elementary school was just a happy blur.

But in middle school I began gaining weight. I started to notice these tall, lean, porcelain beauties gracing the hallways. I resented them. I wished I could wear what they wore but I couldn’t. By 7th grade, I hid myself in loose-fitting garments and avoided mirrors. But I could do nothing to prevent even more severe effects—hair loss, acne and mood swings. By 10th grade, I hit bottom. I ended up in that cream colored waiting room.

Dr.##### looked like any other doctor. She wore soft blue scrubs and bright pink tennis shoes. I couldn’t have known, and probably wouldn’t have believed, how she would change the course of my life. She began by asking me what I had been going through and I was honest with her. I told her everything. She listened, considering every detail.

She made herself human, taking herself out of the role of “doctor” and relating to me on the topic of body image. She always looked me in the eyes; she had the kind of eyes that let you know she saw you. I felt safe. She shared things about her own life— it was never strictly business. She saw how much my illness was holding me back physically and emotionally. She never gave up on me, treating me like family, making me even more willing to follow her advice.

And in November of my 15th year, Dr. ##### diagnosed me with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome), a surprisingly common hormonal imbalance (as many as 1 out of 3 women are affected) that upends the body’s regulation of blood sugar. Common and yet my previous doctors had never figured it out.

Dr. ##### provided a ladder and I immediately began climbing out of the hole in which I’d been stuck. I would have to change everything about my life, but after the first month, I started to see results. My mood stabilized. The hair loss stopped. Eleven months later I had lost 70 pounds and felt amazing. My body, which had been depleted of various nutrients and minerals from a decade of malnourishment, began to heal. I was incrementally transforming back into who I was always meant to be— my smile and confidence restored. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt excited to be seen. I wanted to be seen.

I am not this syndrome. I’m that loud and proud kid again. My friends waited for me. Opening up to them was one of the best decisions I’ve made to this day. This journey has been an essential puzzle piece of my life. I had to go through this to reclaim who I was and regain my confidence. The work will never be done, but at least I don’t feel like a stranger in my own body.

I’m myself again.

End.

When writing about a serious illness, we have to think about balance. If the reader is overloaded with your hardship, they may lose hope. When a reader loses hope, they can also lose interest. To keep them interested, something we must do, we have to keep a glimmer of light in view.

There are no formulas to follow. You have to write and read and feel. You need to include whatever is necessary to convey the gravity of the problem and exclude whatever is redundant. When in doubt, increase the light and read again.

Sophie achieved the proper balance. There are two paragraphs that outline her illness and the emotional toll it took. The ❡s starting with I had lost control and But in middle school hold all the darkness, just 157 words. That works out to just less than ¼ of the total piece. The rest of the writing takes us through her recovery and the reclaiming of her life.

The section that explains her carefree elementary school years turned out to be essential. It provides the reader with a baseline of understanding, an appreciation of the normal life that gets taken away. The reader can feel the jeopardy because they can picture the loud and happy child to whom all this happened.

Sophie achieved what she set out to do. She told a gripping story, kept herself front and center, and had us rooting for her. Everything she faced provides her story the necessary gravity to make it matter. The balance she strikes between light and dark keeps the reader engaged. The vulnerability she shows— resenting the tall, lean, porcelain beauties— makes her relatable. The emphasis she places on steadfast friends redeems her.

In early December we met for the final time before submission of her applications. I wanted to discuss what we had been through. It felt to me that there were lessons that might prove useful to her in the future. I shared a copy of her original personal statement.

Oh no, don’t. She pleaded

Too late. I said. Go ahead.

She only read a couple of paragraphs before she stopped.

I pulled her final draft up in its place.

Would you read this one for me? I asked.

This time she didn’t stop. If ever I’ve heard a dramatic reading, this was it. No one had to state the obvious. She had transformed a diatribe into a mission statement. Anyone who read it would come away with a clear picture of the student they’d be meeting in September.

Have you experienced some similar challenge? Was it serious enough to have changed you in some important way?

Then you may have found your story.