Read my friend Shelly Page’s account of living and working with chronic illness in a demanding, competitive profession. Shelley writes with power and conviction in a voice you won’t forget. Follow her story.
On Easter Sunday, when I was 19, I awoke from panicky dreams of missed j-school deadlines and failed foul shots to find that I was encased in a body bag of pain.
Before I consciously understood that I couldn’t move, my first thoughts were of a feature story due the next day, an air ball I doinked in the last basketball game of an inauspicious season for Carleton University, and a gnawing hunger for carbs.
I imagined crumpets, discounted and day-old, from the thrift bakery around the corner. My roommates and I survived on its discards.
It was like having a beer store on the block if we were a house of 18-year-old guys with new fake
ID. Instead, we were four girl jocks with no cooking skills and 4000-calorie-a-day requirements. I’d polished off the last crumpet the night before…
View original post 632 more words