The Sickness That Healed Me
by Rola Elnaggar

I was three years old, white as a sheet, heart racing in my ears and hiding between two twin beds, all alone in the apartment with the only source of light coming from the mute TV, when the front door creaked open, and two pairs of footsteps pattered against the carpet—instilling more fear into my frail toddler heart—and stepped into my childhood room. It was my grandma and my uncle. I was relieved it was them and not a stranger coming to kidnap me, but it was so short-lived because the clock was ticking on my days as an only child.

My parents had to go to the hospital because of pregnancy complications, and their short trip to the pharmacy wouldn’t be so short anymore. So, my grandma and uncle came to get me because I would be staying with them while Mom was giving birth to my sister. 

At least, this is how I remember it. My mother might recount it differently. 

A week or two later, we were at home, and I got officially acquainted with my little sister, my first enemy, my first love, but I didn’t know it just yet. I mean, the first thing she did was bite the doorman’s finger as he held her, so I decided I didn’t like that little demon, especially when she soaked up the attention of everyone in every room and stole all of my toys, even my favorite Little Mermaid top. 

As any dutiful older sister, I started liking her as time went by and as we got to share some wonderful memories. Like the times we made a fort from our blankets and pillows or when we tried to make a hammock in our room that never supported our weight and always ended up on the floor. Our collective imagination was inconceivable at times; we had the power to become any person we wanted to be. We created entire worlds: we pretended we had a pool and hosted an imaginary party; we even poured apple juice into cocktail cups and added a funny straw and an umbrella. We pretended we owned a restaurant and a farm, and sometimes we were rock stars. One day, we were journalists, and the next day, we were fashion designers. There was no dull moment in our childhood. 

Throughout all these memories, I still felt insecure around her. And enjoying those moments didn’t feel like genuine love but more like a duty or a societal obligation. It’s confusing how you get jealous of the lack of pressure she didn’t have to experience at the hands of our family, just because she is younger and more delicate, but also find yourself the first one to defend her if anyone thought of pressuring her into doing something she doesn’t want to do for the same reasons.

I was eighteen, and I experienced my first failed attempt at a relationship. So, I naturally started questioning my ability to love. I realized I never loved the guy, just the idea of him, and it dawned on me that I never loved at all in my entire life. Never felt that need to sacrifice, to put someone first, to put their needs before mine. I am a very selfish person, and I don’t know how to love. And it all started and ended with my sibling. She was seen as the fragile little one, while I was the independent older one. At times, I didn’t feel like I was a priority. So, I made myself my own priority. I think too much. I’m always in this introspective state, overanalyzing every aspect of my words, actions, and thoughts. It’s always me, me, me. So, I end up overlooking others, and maybe this is why love comes harder to me than most. 

I was twenty-three when I discovered I was capable of love, which was wonderful news amidst probably one of the worst news I’d ever received. A diagnosis. My sister was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. It’s not fatal. It’s just… chronic. I hate this word. Chronic. I mean, in this absurd world we live in, is there anything we can consider constant? 

However, the absurdity doesn’t stop there. The causes of Crohn’s disease remain a mystery; therefore, there is no cure. It’s an autoimmune disease where the person’s immune system attacks the intestines and the colon, producing inflammation in its wake. Some doctors told us it’s genetic, tends to run in the family, or can be caused due to environmental or psychological factors. One doctor even informed us it’s either she got too thrilled about something or too sad, which might have contributed to its emergence. It appears you can’t be too happy about something, or you will risk confusing your immune system. 

I think I discovered love one day after midnight. I was still awake, working on my novel when she woke up in pain. Nothing could relieve this guttural pain. Hers and mine. I couldn’t feel what she was experiencing, but I could also feel it. I thought it was selfish of me to think of my own pain at that moment, but the awareness of my wrongdoing was probably the most selfless action I’ve ever experienced. 

Helpless. There I was, the older sister, the protector, who discovered love but could do nothing. It was my biggest personal victory and the ultimate failure as a sibling. I sat there wondering if pain can travel, if pain can be domesticated, if it can be extracted and remade into a friend. I would do anything for this pain to end. I just wanted to finish my writing and go to sleep. I yearned for the moment when I didn’t feel this love. 

Countless nights later, driven by this newfound empathy, I found myself awake at night, researching and reading everything I could find to understand and be prepared. Everyone, our family and our friends, were all educating themselves and readjusting. We are talking about new diets, colonoscopies, supplements, blood tests, and a few visits to the ER when the pain is too much and the painkillers aren’t helping. 

Guilt and shame ravaged my thoughts. Why am I more healthy than her? We lived in the same house, ate the same food, and shared a similar lifestyle. The guilt was feeling like I took something from her that she needed more than me, while shame was thinking it, not being thankful for what I have, for not taking what I have and turning it into something useful. 

I didn’t realize it back then, but on my journey to find a solution for her pain, I unconsciously gave away my body to her. I started treating it as if it were hers. If she changed her diet, I changed my diet. If she were allergic to gluten, I would eat gluten-free food. If she were forced to eat oatmeal and found it disgusting, I would search for ways to make it more delicious, and I would have it for breakfast every day so that she wouldn’t be alone. I ended up losing a lot of weight, which made me physically look more like her. 

I read online that somatic breathwork and yoga could alleviate her pain, and when she refused to participate, I found myself doing them anyway. Every inhale and exhale in those sessions was done on her behalf.

My intention was to help her, but I ended up helping myself. 

I have had a long struggle with anxiety. I became aware of it around the age of eight-nine, and I’ve suffered ever since. I tend not to take things lightly. Whenever a new, surprising factor is added to my carefully planned routine, I lash out and stress over catastrophes that haven’t happened yet. So, add a new stressful factor in the form of my sister’s situation and see how I will deal with it. In retrospect, I actually handled it well, not at first, but something finally broke through. Everything I did—whether giving up unhealthy food I loved or discovering spiritual and psychological healing—helped lessen my anxiety and provided me with the right tools to deal with it, which is something I never imagined was possible. 

The more I took care of myself with her in mind, the more I relieved my own pain in regard to hers. The process made me more assured, more strong-willed, and capable. So, instead of wishing away the pain on those terrible nights, I actively sat beside her and made her laugh. I would turn on the TV, find the most absurd show ever, and start making comments and little quips until she smiled and forgot about the pain. Distracting her was distracting me. And that was the first time I felt like I truly cared about someone else besides me. I might have put in the time to help people, but this is the first time I felt impacted. 

I’m still selfish, of course. I’m still seeking my own relief, but I stopped viewing it as an antithesis to love. If anything, selfishness is a path to love. If I didn’t take care of myself, put myself first, and love myself, I wouldn’t have been able to get it together for her and our family. I’ve probably loved her my entire life, but I had to hate her first, be jealous of her, and picture a reality where I’m an only child to grow and understand that my definition of love was quite one-dimensional.

Today, she is a lot better. The pain is a lot less frequent, still there, lurking around, lying dormant, waiting to hit again, and it truly scares me. Sometimes, I wake up wondering when and how things will become rough again and if I will fare well when it does. But I know I will just love her more furiously when that time comes, and I pray it never does.

Mom swears she didn’t leave me alone for more than five minutes that day. She tells me I’ve conflated this random night when they went to the pharmacy with the actual birth night, but the truth doesn’t matter because on this day, I learned what fear and selfishness were for the first time, and it prepared me for the life ahead. A life where I will have to pull my seatbelt on first before I pull my sister’s—only if she needs me to do so.

Rola Elnaggar is a writer and a researcher. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Erato Magazine, the Hooghly Review, Underbelly Press, and other publications. She is currently working on her debut novel as well as a Master’s degree in literature and film studies. You can reach her on Twitter @rola_naggar.

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