By Lauren Hand
While I wait for relief—
I create.
Not to escape the pain,
but to give it a name.
Because if I can shape it,
maybe someone else will finally see it. Understand it.
Because if I can delight them-
wow them-
maybe I’m less of a burden.
Maybe I can at least distract them
from just how much I’m always in need of them.
Doctors say:
“Maybe it’s just your period.”
“It’s probably anxiety.”
“You’re too young for this—try taking better care of yourself.”
“Lose some weight.”
“Wait! Ms. Hand- you’re losing a lot of weight… are you okay?”
“Before we check that, let’s rule everything else out first.”
So I give them my tissue—
to rule out every possible issue.
Biopsies from my stomach.
My colon.
My esophagus.
My small intestine.
“Hey,” I say. “I’ve got an idea.
While you’re in there,
why not grab a few more pieces of me?”
Because… why not?
What’s one more?
Or four?
Seventeen.
Seventeen samples.
I give them my blood.
And I give them more.
The nurse leans in and asks:
“Can you come back tomorrow?
We’re not allowed to take much more.
Do you have someone to drive you home?
You really shouldn’t have done this all alone.”
As if I chose
to give thirty-two tubes away today.
But sure—
I’ll be back tomorrow.
Same chair. Same needles.
Same pain.
“Ms. Hand, your doctor’s double-booked—
you’ll see someone else instead.”
“Hi. Name’s Dr. Hassan. Nice to meet you,”
he says, without lifting his head.
“Your labs look clear.
Have you followed up with psych?
I see you’ve seen her once before—
maybe give that another try.
Pain like this is often… in the mind.”
But the very next day—
I’m admitted. ER.
And it’s septic.
My system’s in decline.
The irony burns—
finally someone believes what I’ve said,
but only now—
now that I’m crying alone on this hospital bed.
Tell me—
How can you still not see me
when you’re holding so many pieces of me?
You have so much of me—
in your lab.
How can you be studying
the inside of my body
and still tell me
it’s all in my head?
New symptoms, new pain—
“Guess what? Ms. Hand, You’re allergic to the new medicine again.”
While I wait for relief–
I learn they’re offering something new.
Though, through the FDA-
it’s not yet approved.
It’s a clinical trial.
There are no guarantees-
but researchers are learning
a lot about people like me.
This could open a world of new info,
a world of new data.
We still don’t know so much.
“Sign me up.!” No questions asked.
And I feel a rush.
“How long until it’s available?”
“We don’t know.”
“It may not leave the trial stage.”
“It may never be developed
beyond the prototype in your hands.”
While I wait for relief—
I comply.
I plug in.
A device on my ear,
a quiet prayer in my chest,
that even if I don’t find healing—
this path might help the rest.
Because maybe I won’t be the one who’s saved,
but for them, the path will be paved.
While I wait for relief—
I give them so much of me,
I become the proof
that we are not invisible.
While I wait for relief,
I learn-
life doesn’t get easier after diagnosis.
But while I wait for relief—
I show up.
I speak.
I create.
I ache.
I build the path
for the one who comes next.
May she live long.
Pain-free.
May she laugh without worry.
May she breathe deeply—
without discomfort, without fear.
May she never have to ask her brother,
“Please, don’t make me laugh, dear.”
May she never fear her food.
May she never fear her body.
May she never wonder
if her symptoms are too graphic to share.
May she twirl around with the Florida sun in her hair.-
Not worried about her stability or inability to stay upright.
May she live with joy; live with out fright.
May she never look at old photos
and miss the flare
she once had for life—
before “flare” meant pain.
Before “flare” became life.
May she never worry
that she won’t be believed.
May she breathe freely.
May she know peace.
These are my prayers—
while I wait for relief.
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