It was 2021, and the world was in a silent chaos. The COVID-19 pandemic had spread to every corner, transforming what was once normal into a distorted reality. Fear hung in the air, invisible yet palpable. Everyone was locked inside their homes, living under the shadow of the unknown.
For me, this already frightening scenario took on an even more terrifying dimension. It all started with a sharp pain in my back, something that at first seemed like just a passing discomfort. But the pain intensified, spreading like a wildfire that could not be extinguished. Soon came the fever, which would not relent, and I knew something was profoundly wrong.
With hospitals overflowing, entering an emergency room at that time felt like stepping into a war zone. Every corner was saturated with patients, most suffering from the effects of the virus that was assaulting the world. The mere thought of seeking help in a hospital was daunting, but I had no choice.
Pyelonephritis, a kidney infection, had taken hold with a fury I had never imagined possible. When I was finally admitted, the fear of being in such a dangerous environment, where COVID-19 loomed over everything like a constant threat, was almost unbearable. I did not know if I would leave there healed or if I would become just another victim of the virus.
The first days were a blur of pain and exhaustion. My mother, the only person allowed to stay with me, was by my side the entire time. She was my anchor, trying to comfort me even while facing her own fears. But despite her unwavering support, each day brought new challenges. My body, already weakened by the infection, seemed uncooperative. I lost venous access every day, which meant the nurses had to stick my veins again and again.
The physical pain was immense, but there was something even more distressing in knowing that, every night, I would have to go through yet another blood test. It felt like my body was being constantly tested, my endurance pushed to the limit. The nights were the worst. The silence of the hospital, broken only by the sounds of machines and the soft footsteps of nurses, created an atmosphere of loneliness. The nightly pricks, which had become an almost cruel routine, were a constant reminder that my struggle was far from over.
My mother held my hand each time a new needle was inserted, trying to calm me, but I could see the despair in her eyes. She tried to be strong for me, but I knew her suffering was almost as great as mine.
Over the 10 days I spent in the hospital, there were moments when hope seemed to slip through my fingers. I was tired, both physically and emotionally. However, my mother's constant presence, her silent strength, kept me from giving up. There was a stubborn determination within me to overcome that trial, to return home and leave that nightmare behind.
Finally, when the doctors began to speak of discharge, I felt a mix of relief and fear. I was going home, yes, but with scars that went beyond the physical. The pandemic continued to ravage the world outside, but inside me, I knew I had faced and conquered an intense personal battle. The experience left deep marks, but it also taught me about the strength that exists within us, even in the most desperate moments.
And so, as I left the hospital, still fragile but stronger than I ever imagined, I knew that the silent storm had passed, but the lessons it brought would stay with me forever.
REFLECTION: "In the quietest storms, we discover strength we never knew we had. Each pain faced becomes a scar that carries not only the memory of suffering but also the victory of resilience and rebirth."
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Wings of Overcoming: My Truth
Non-FictionI was born with spina bifida, a diagnosis received while still in my mother's womb. From the very beginning, my life has been marked by challenges and triumphs. This book is an intimate and powerful account of my journey, an exploration of the exper...
