American Healthcare: From Hard to Soft
As a child I was sick a lot. I’d get three or four colds a year, always with a nasty strep throat. I missed most of fifth grade with mononucleosis. I’d been born with some sort of digestive difficulties (never diagnosed; I now believe I was allergic to baby formula) that persisted as chronic diarrhea. Then, around the age of nine, I started passing blood in my stools.
By that age I was already averse to doctors and especially terrified of needles. So as my condition developed I kept it secret from my parents. Somehow they missed the fact that I was going to the bathroom twenty times a day, and another two or three times at night, usually just to pass a dollop of mucusy blood. Nor were they aware of the belly cramps, so bad that I’d have to stop whatever I was doing for several minutes until they abated.
Thus I grew into a skinny, pale, chronically tired teenager. Finally, when I was fourteen, I was hospitalized and tests revealed an advanced case of ulcerative colitis — the interior wall of my large intestine was one open, bleeding sore.













































