The world doesn`t stop turning just because your world has been shattered. After the surgeries, after the hospital walls finally receded, I had to face the most terrifying thing of all: the return to “normal” life.
- The Sanctuary of the Office
Returning to work was my sanctuary. It was the only place where I felt equal again. Among family and friends, everyone knew what had happened; they looked at me with a mix of pity and forced optimism, pretending everything was fine while walking on eggshells. Sometimes, they even forgot about some of my disabilities and I had to explain to them again.. But at the office, I had to be professional. In that environment, I wasn`t “the survivor” – I was a colleague, a peer, a contributor (although they knew I wasn`t in good health after the accident, most of the people though it`s ok already). It was the only place where I felt almost normal.
- The Hidden Price of a Five-Day Week
But that normalcy had a hidden, grueling price. My daily life became a complex logistical operation. With urinary incontinence, I found a way to cope – simple pad was enough to handle the leaks when I coughed, sneezed, or dared to laugh. But the fecal incontinence was a different best altogether, complicated (thankfully) by chronic constipation.
I discovered a way to “survive” the work week by intentionally maintaining the constipation. I kept my body in a state of stasis for six days, just so I could feel socially secure enough to leave the house.
- Sundays in Isolation
Then, every weekend, the ritual began. I would take laxatives on Saturday afternoon, knowing that Sunday would be lost. Sundays were spent in total isolation. I couldn`t leave the house, and neither could my son. We waited behind closed doors for the medicine to work, over and over again. My weekends weren`t much for rest; they were for cleaning my body so I could put the mask back on by Monday morning.
- When the Mask Shook
Even with this strict control, the mask sometimes shattered. Twice, it happened on my way to work. Luckily, no one was around. I simply turned back, went home, cleaned the wreckage of my dignity, and returned to the office later, heart racing.
The third time was the hardest. I was with my son and his father (I also think two strangers saw the accident). Even though they were the people who loved me most, when the accident happened, I felt a wave of shame so cold it felt like ice. We had to turn around and go home. My family reacted normal, as much as possible, but in my head, I wasn`t just a mother or a partner anymore – I felt like a burden.
- The Breaking Point
This was my breaking point. Living in a cycle of six days in fear and one in isolation wasn`t “normalcy”- it was a prison. Seeing how my condition dictated not only my life but also my son`s life, thinking about him growing and starting to feel shamed by his mother, sparked something inside me.
I realized that if I continued to hide and pretend to accept this, I would spend the rest of my life in shadows. This was the moment I refused to be defeated. I stopped trying to “hide” the problem and started looking for a way out again. The search was officially back on.
Continuie reading: Chapter 10
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