I believe in the power of forgiveness.
Not forgiveness as the phony gesture of claiming, “it’s okay,” to avoid conflict, while still harboring resentment toward someone or something, but rather the genuine acceptance of an apology, ceasing to place blame, and the act of moving forward.
Last fall, I began to experience excruciating pain in my abdomen completely out of the blue, it seemed. Initially, the discomfort was merely a dull aching in my right side. However, as the days and weeks passed, and the cold northeastern weather grew more bitter and unbearable, so did the pain. It felt as if something inside of me were twisting tightly and burning. It felt as if my organs were on fire — a flame that could not be distinguished despite the powerful painkillers I took.
I visited several different doctors at various hospitals throughout the state. From a terrible case of food poisoning to an infection from a parasite, each diagnosis was just as random and vague as the other. Although the doctors ran standard tests, such as blood work, X-Rays and CT scans, countless times, it was as if they were as puzzled by the cause of my pain as I. Each seemed to dismiss my continuing cries for help.
“I know my body,” I pleaded. “I know when something isn’t right, and something is definitely wrong.”
“Everyone experiences pain differently,” one doctor consoled. “You probably just feel as if it’s stronger than it actually is.”
I endured the mysterious agony for another two everlasting months. My suffering became so intense that it interfered with my daily life. I no longer could ride in a car or take the bus to class. The thrusting of the vehicles as they drove over bumps in the road caused bursts of pain. I no longer could walk up or down stairs, for lifting my legs simply was not possible. Hopeless, I began to accept my condition as something with which I was forced to live and could not change.
One early December morning, I awoke in a cold sweat. I was dizzy and unable to breathe, and the pain was white hot. Deep down, I knew in that moment it was critical — I urgently needed care. I was rushed to the nearby hospital, and after several hours of tests, the doctor deemed I had a possible case of appendicitis but refused to take any action for 24 hours. He was unsure.
He advised that I be admitted in order to monitor my vital signs since my oxygen levels were low, and I had a fever of 102 degrees. At this point, I was in tears and shrieking in pain. I was desperate for answers.
“How can my stomach be hurting this much and the doctors not know why,” I kept asking myself.
Because I have suffered several serious health issues since birth and never reacted in this manner, my mother knew that this time was different. She had me rushed to a more reputable hospital about an hour away.
This doctor decided to remove my appendix with the notion that even though he was not certain an appendectomy was necessary, it could not hurt. During the surgery, he discovered that my appendix was abnormal, folded, and had slowly been poisoning me. He also speculated that I had cysts that burst, and had I waited even a few hours longer, my condition would not have been stable. When I awoke, groggy from the anesthesia, I was shocked. For the first time in months, the torture had finally ended.
Once they learned of my success, the doctors whom I had previously seen and whom misdiagnosed me sent letters of apology. At first, despite my relief, I was furious. I did not understand how some of the most educated and skilled doctors in the state could not determine the root of my ailment. I was bitter and felt as if they truly did not take the time to perform their jobs to their utmost abilities, but that they haphazardly diagnosed me without a second thought. As they continued to live their lives as carefree and normal, I spent every moment of every day in confusion and despair. I lost multiple months of my life to a blur of anguish. Months of my youth and college experience — the time that is supposed to be the most blissful.
However, I quickly realized that people can and do make mistakes. Yes, those mistakes can sometimes be catastrophic and life affecting, but those doctors were only human.
“What good would this negativity grant me,” I asked myself.
The past was the past. It could not be changed. My anger would not solve anything. It would not affect those doctors — it only would affect me. I could not spend the rest of my life pointing a finger and placing blame. Harvesting animosity and resentment would bleed into other areas of my life. I needed to move forward. I accepted their apologies and finally was able to return to my optimistic self.
I believe in forgiveness…