Some ailments do not bombard the body to the edge of mortality. They don’t manifest in hospitals or leave behind vivid scans. Yet they silently erode a life from within, robbing comfort, robbing spontaneity, transforming mundane days into tests of endurance. Autoimmune disorders and chronic discomfort commonly inhabit that realm: not fatal, but unyielding; not lethal, yet capable of shading the world so profoundly that survival turns into a matter of resolve rather than biology.
At 25, she appeared aged in ways that calendars fail to register. Sjogren’s had gradually drained the moisture from her eyes and mouth, as if someone had squeezed the essence of the world out of her. Fibromyalgia cloaked every joint with unseen bruises, each touch a muted explosion. Raynaud’s had morphed winter into a lurking threat, shadowing her fingertips even in the rainy season.
By day, she inhabited a corporate cubicle. On weekends, a camera was draped across her shoulder, her act of defiance against a body that had first revolted.
On a drizzling evening, laden with a work bag and a heavier spirit, she noticed them: street children releasing paper boats into muddy puddles, exclaiming as each one set sail. Something within her chest stirred. Once, she would have knelt beside them, crafted a boat from a page, dipped her hands in the rain, instinctively.
But now, immersing her hands in water felt like capitulation to pain. That moment of hesitation (small, unseen) inflicted more hurt than the cold ever could. Illness hadn’t just constricted her vessels; it had confined her childhood.
Sjogren’s drained the essence from her spirit. Fibromyalgia dulled hues, muted laughter, swapped music for droning static. And on certain days, the burden of being unwell at such a young age weighed so heavily that she toyed with the fringes of hope, contemplated whether absence would be simpler than enduring.
Yet she was not solitary. Family supported her through nights when medication failed. Doctors kept watch. Psychiatrists listened. Therapists wove coping into routine. Medications warmed her fingers; tears flowed from bottles when her own wouldn’t. And through it all, she remained, perhaps fractured, but engaged.
Gradually, agonizingly, she ascended once more. Work took notice. She stood with more confidence. Not healed, but embracing life again, rather than being consumed by fatigue.
One languid Sunday, she perched on her balcony, a coffee mug cradled gently between her hands. A soft drizzle wove silver onto the world. A puddle glimmered on the street below, and in an instant, time collapsed. She could scent damp notebooks, hear the echoes of a much younger version of herself dashing through muddy school grounds.
A well-known ghazal by Jagjit Singh drifted from her father’s old Murphy radio: “Woh Kaghaz Ki Kashti Woh Barish Ka Pani.” This time, she didn’t join the children, nor did she need to. In that tranquil moment of reflection, she recognized that healing isn’t about rushing back to who you once were, but about learning to coexist with who you are now, without flinching.
The rain continued to fall. Memories still stung a bit. But this time, it didn’t prevail.
*Bodhibrata Banerjee is a rheumatology fellow in India.*