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My dreams of flying were grounded by mystery illness,
but I still hope
By Brittany Strickland
September 21, 2007 | Ten years and counting. . . .
It's been a terrible number for so long now. It's the
earliest that I can remember getting a stomach ache
that was so amazingly intense, and it's been an anxious
mess ever since. I've gone through so many tests and
so many surgeries that I can't even remember them anymore
when doctors ask me when the last one was. The dates
are blurred, the objectives seem pointless, all of them
leading into the "do nothing" attitude that seems to
please everyone -- pleasantly happy that they can be
rid of the mystery.
It's my mystery and my curse. No one can tell me exactly
what has been writhing inside of my intestines and stomach
for all of this time, and that is almost more frustrating
than the curse itself, but whatever the cause, I have
to deal with it on my own.
At least by now, everyone's forgotten what it feels
like to be in chronic pain. This chaos can all seem
so simple. It's almost cruel. Moments of ambition and
motivation flutter around and then suddenly fall like
stones. Heavy stones beating the people that I don't
want to be touched by this. I've hurt for so long to
have to see my mother cry over me or to hear my dad
in anger because he feels like there's no more to do.
And to hear it out of the mouths of experts at least
removes him from limbo for knowing the truth.
This problem consists of so many ugly things that
people keep telling me to try and make pretty. As if
they know what that even means -- coping with something
that they've resigned themselves to believing in. Submission
is not something I can do. It is something I can erase
as a possibility and throw it aside. This summer, in
fact, was when I took it out to the curb. This was finally
the time that I was going to be able to progress with
the career I've always wanted so badly. I was going
to be immersed in three solid months of experiencing
something that would help me become void of all of the
understatements surrounding this illness and all of
the limitations that have been clinging to its nasty
toes. I was going to be a pilot. My Grandpa had been
a pilot, my father is a pilot, and my sister is a pilot.
All of our family friends are pilots and they had finally
accepted me amongst their family.
My mind was set, my books were bought, my instructor
was hand-picked for me -- as an ex-fighter pilot, she
was eager to teach me how to be a woman in aviation.
I had finished ground school, prepared for my solo,
and I was ready and excited to join the family affair.
However, before I could become fully certified, I
needed to get a physical examination in order to ensure
my safety as a pilot and the safety of the passengers
I would be carrying. All went as planned. Vitals were
perfect, eyesight qualified, even my short stature made
me perfectly suitable for the cockpit, but there was
one detour. One detour that would stop everything. And
one word: medication. The medication that had helped
subside my irritable symptoms over these past ten years
was now something that was prohibiting me from flying.
There was nothing I could do. It had beat me down again.
I had to leave the doctor's office with nothing but
a pamphlet for more information given to me as a courtesy
for ruining my future.
The next week was torture. I had no direction and
all thought seemed jumbled upon itself. My stomach had
hurt worse than ever. There were pains of nausea associated
with wet, sad, and tired eyes longing for relief. I
was a disappointment. I was feeling it and knowing why
my heart was aching. It was a quick and painful backtrack
on all of my goals -- goals to do something great and
goals to overcome something terrible. The knowledge
of the far extent of these disappointments was colliding
within itself inside of my mind. I felt distant from
those who cared the most about me. My dad had shared
his vintage aviator glasses from the 1970's with me.
He had received them when he was just as naive as I.
He gave me his airshow uniform from the Thunderbirds
from 1992 and he even provided me his flight jacket
without any provocation. He had given so much and it
was all something I was so proud of to acquire. Flying
was something I was finally doing right and something
that I thought I had deserved.
The frustrations of this illness are as evident as
they have ever been and they are insistent upon berating
me even in my most pleasant of moments. Though I am
in quite the rut for the time being, I still am aware
that there is nothing quite as imaginative as flying.
Even the parts that are accompanied by stress and fear
are under the authority of the beauty of flight.
Amelia Earhart had it right when she said, "You haven't
seen a tree, until you've seen its shadow from the sky."
Every time I had flown I had thought of that. I would
peek out of the side window and I'd be jealous of the
vastness of that shadow. If there is something that
this beast has thrown in front of my eyes, it is that
the mere shadow of something I would have never seen
before, is what was so beautiful and that I could not
have wanted anything else. Maybe that image can help
me conquer my mystery illness. Maybe I can beat it for
good, instead of the other way around.
NW
MS
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