The Loneliness of a Life-Changing Decision
Have you ever been surrounded by a million people but still felt so alone? It’s a question I’ve been pondering a lot lately. On September 5, I walked into the hospital with a plan in my head—an idea of how things would go, how I would feel. I thought I was ready. But reality has a way of shaking even the best-laid plans.
In the days that followed, I was enveloped by the well-meaning words of family and friends: “It’s okay,” they said. “No one will care.” But there I was, trapped in my own thoughts, unable to shake the feeling that things weren’t okay. That I wasn’t okay. I felt different. Ugly, even.
Wrestling with Identity and Stigma
There’s a strange disconnect that happens when the outside world tells you one thing, but your inner voice won’t let go of its whispers. Everyone around me said the surgery would bring more independence, more freedom. They told me it wouldn’t change who I was. But my mind kept circling the idea that I had somehow lost something—something intangible, something I wasn’t prepared to let go of. I wondered if anyone could truly understand that feeling. Could they see past my physical changes? Did they know how much effort it was taking just to accept myself?
It took time. It took quiet moments of reflection, and a deep, often painful, reckoning with my own emotions. But eventually, I found peace. I came to accept that feeling different doesn’t mean being lesser, and that it’s okay to feel isolated even when you’re surrounded by people. Because those feelings, however lonely, are valid.
The Decision: A Catch-22
I battled with the choice of undergoing a surgery that I knew would fundamentally alter my life. In the end, I got a suprapubic catheter—a device that allows urine to drain from the bladder through a small hole in the abdomen into a collection bag. It’s often used for long-term management when other methods become challenging.
At first, it felt like the decision was being made for me. The medical necessity was clear, but emotionally, I wasn’t ready. Then, as I wrestled with it more, I took ownership of the decision. I knew this would give me more independence, more control. And yet, despite knowing all this, I was still terrified. It felt like I was losing a part of myself—a part tied to my childhood, to my identity, to the way I had always functioned in the world.
Facing the Stigma of Medical Devices
More than anything, I just felt ugly. And that is really difficult, especially for a young woman who just wants to fit in and already has to navigate life in a wheelchair. The stigma surrounding medical devices, disability, and anything that makes someone look “different” is real. It’s something society doesn’t often acknowledge, but it weighs heavily on those of us who experience it firsthand. It’s one thing to deal with a disability, but it’s another to carry the added burden of people’s perceptions, judgments, and the feeling of being an outsider.
The Aftermath: Recovery and Reflection
The surgery itself wasn’t major, and I recovered fairly well. But the emotional toll was immense. Before the procedure, I was an absolute mess, grieving something I couldn’t quite name. It felt like saying goodbye to a piece of who I was. Don’t get me wrong—I have immense respect for the medical field. But I also struggle with the way we’re often left with minimal information, forced to figure out the nuances of our recovery alone. And why is it that the solution to one problem almost always brings new problems?
Before this, I never had to take medication regularly. Now, post-surgery, I take five chronic tablets a day. Before, I didn’t experience daily pain. Now, pain is part of my routine. And while I know this recovery isn’t forever, it’s taking much longer than I expected. If you know me, you know patience isn’t exactly my strong suit. This experience has tested me in ways I never anticipated, and I find myself running out of patience with the process.
Finding the Silver Lining
But despite the struggles, there are undeniable positives. The freedom I’ve gained is invaluable. I can do things now that I couldn’t before, and that’s something worth holding onto. So, I’m choosing to focus on the good, on finding a new normal, and on maintaining it in the best way possible for me.
For those of you who have ever felt this way—know that you are not alone. Feeling different, feeling ugly, feeling lost in the midst of a million faces—it doesn’t make you any less valuable. The journey to peace is your own, and it’s okay if it takes time. Just remember that peace is possible, even when it feels far away.
The Final Thought
Change is never easy, especially when it feels like you’re losing something in the process. But perhaps, in the end, we gain more than we lose.
