I couldn’t sleep.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Excitement wasn’t blocking The Sandman’s advance. Neither was anxiety.
No, what was keeping me awake was a buildup of acid on my throat. It surged up my esophagus into the back of my mouth, leaving a burning sensation in its path. Every time I tried to doze off, nausea would jolt me awake.
Antacids didn’t help. Neither did raising my pillow. There was no relief to be found.
So, after a sleepless night, I threw in the towel.
I booked a doctor’s appointment, walking out of the office with a prescription that would help keep the acid at bay. But even with relief in my clutches, the adventure was far from over.
Over the next two months, I’d undergo a litany of tests — an ultrasound, an MRI, two endoscopies. I’d spend hours away from my job and incur tens of thousands of dollars in insurance claims. And at the end of this gauntlet, I’d find myself frustratingly devoid of answers.
There was no silver bullet for what ailed me. The risk of another flare-up would always be around the corner.
I had to get used to that.
I know, dear reader, that tales of runaway stomach acid are not the most pleasant. They might even seem taboo to share in a forum like this one.
But these ordeals are my reality. And the tactics I use to avert them are my reality too.
Living with digestive issues saddles me with rules. Rules about when to eat. Rules about what to eat. And rules about how to react if I break protocol.
It all can be overwhelming at times. And it all can be socially isolating at others.
Insisting that companions commit to an earlier dinnertime is never pleasant. Triple-checking with restaurant staff about the ingredients in a dish makes me feel like a pariah.
I wish I didn’t have to go through this dance. I wish that I could live unencumbered and carefree.
But I don’t have that option. So, I do what I need to get by.
And yet, merely calling all this survival is missing the point.
Nearly two decades ago, my life was inexorably changed.
Terrorists toppled skyscrapers mere miles from my middle school classroom. A crystal-clear September morning devolved into a day I wasn’t sure I’d survive.
For years, I was filled with anger, grief, and confusion on account of this atrocity. To a large degree, I still feel this way today.
And yet, I made it past the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t let them break me.
Many years later, I moved across Texas without a job lined up. Over the course of three months, I burned through my savings as I sought steady employment.
All of this was also traumatic. I was filled with shame and doubt for not landing on my feet quickly.
And yet, I made it past that experience as well. In the subsequent years, I’ve built a career and generally thrived.
This resurgence took a hit when a global pandemic brought the world to a halt. So much of the life I’d built succumbed to the virus’ long shadow. So many initiatives that I’d set suddenly had to be scrapped.
The darkest months of the pandemic — filled with social isolation and the tension of uncertainty — felt like misery in slow-motion. They were nothing short of excruciating.
And yet, I’ve made it past those difficult days. In a relatively short timeframe, I’ve gotten myself back on track.
Yes, resilience has been a hallmark of my life. Time after time, I’ve faced significant roadblocks. And in each instance, I’ve risen to the challenge.
I’ve chronicled many of these crises here on Words of the West. But in general, I’m loath to dwell on them.
For the memories remain bitter. The scars persist.
I don’t want adversity to define me. And yet, its imprint is unmistakable.
The trouble started with a milkshake.
I drank the beverage at a diner back when I was a teenager. I immediately regretted it.
It turned out I was lactose intolerant. Many of the dishes I’d enjoyed to that point did not appreciate me in kind.
This revelation changed things.
Eating would no longer be a thoughtless activity. It would now be a minefield to traverse.
So, I did what had to be done. I established a diet. I cooked at home more often. And I stocked my medicine cabinet with digestive aids.
Such measures were largely successful. But not universally so.
Indeed, the night I lay awake with acid churning in my throat came years after that fateful milkshake. I had done so much right, and yet it had all turned out so wrong.
In the wake of such an ordeal, it would be so easy to fall back on old habits. It would be all too tempting to call that experience — and the litany of medical tests that followed — something to survive. It would be all too natural to bury the painful memories and move on.
But I refused to do any of that.
This time, I thought of all the changes I’d made to meet my digestive challenges. And I considered the benefits those adaptations brought.
Continual meal planning, for instance, honed my anticipation skills. Instead of just penciling in the next meal on the docket, I started thinking of what plans and obligations lay ahead in my day. I started considering how I could prepare for them.
Similarly, a necessary aversion to late-night snacking made me consider my sleep patterns. If digesting a burger at 1 AM was a bad idea, then maybe staying up until 1 AM was also a poor decision.
Considerations like these might seem trivial. But they provide a significant silver lining.
These details help us see adversity as a glass half-full. They give us something to build off.
These silver linings don’t validate the strife we went through. But they show how the byproduct of that struggle can be a lasting force for good.
That’s how it’s worked out in my life, at least. But I have a feeling I’m not alone when it comes to this sentiment.
So, let’s take a fresh look at adversity. Let’s reconsider how we define it and how we quantify it.
Something vibrant can emerge from our most challenging moments. We just need to know where to look.