there are many things i expected to deal with in my early twenties.
engineering exams?
yes.
existential crises?
absolutely.
customers asking for discounts on original art?
unfortunately.
but waking up one day and discovering that my hands had quietly resigned from their jobs? that was not on my bingo card.
this happened in 2022.
college had just reopened after nearly two years of covid. for the first time in forever, we were back on campus. i was excited. i attended classes for approximately ten days. and then my body said: “that’s nough education for you.”
it didn’t happen dramatically. there was no movie scene. no ambulance. no doctor running through a hospital corridor yelling medical terms. instead, it happened in the most stupid way possible.
one day i tried pressing the lock button on my iphone. it wouldn’t work. i pressed harder. still wouldn’t work. my immediate conclusion? “wow. apple quality has really gone downhill.” later that day, i was riding my scooty. i tried applying the brakes. my grip felt weak. again, my conclusion was perfectly logical. “wow. the scooty is broken too.”
then i couldn’t tear a roti.
and that’s when a horrifying thought entered my brain.
what if... my mom forgot how to make rotis?
but one chappal later, i regenerated my response…
the phone isn’t broken.
the scooty isn’t broken.
what if… i’m broken?
unfortunately, that turned out to be the correct answer. for almost two months, my hands just didn’t work properly.
they felt weak.
they shook.
they hurt.
my handwriting deteriorated to the point where it looked like a concerned toddler had somehow enrolled in engineering college and borrowed my pen.
and it wasn’t just my hands. walking hurt too.
so now i had hands that didn’t work and legs that were filing complaints as well.
excellent…
because life enjoys comedy, this was happening while i was trying to survive engineering and run an art business… both of which rely quite heavily on functioning limbs.
terrible design flaw, honestly.
i stopped attending college.
writing became difficult.
simple daily tasks became difficult.
and every week, a new doctor arrived with a brand new theory.
one doctor said anxiety… which was fascinating because apparently after talking to me for an hour he had diagnosed me with anxiety (and i must tell you: it don’t take an hour to find that i got anxiety btw).
another said spondylitis.
another said nerve issues.
another said radiculopathy.
one doctor was concerned enough to suggest hospitalisation. which was mildly terrifying considering nobody could actually tell me what was wrong.
so began the great medical treasure hunt.
i had mris of my brain. normal. (yeah, shocked me too).
mris of my spine. normal.
somebody put electricity in me via needles in my arms and legs. (yeah, really). normal.
every report looked at me and said: “we have no idea what is happening, but congratulations, you’re technically alive.”
meanwhile, i was very much not feeling normal.
there’s something uniquely lonely about being told over and over that your reports are fine when you know something isn’t. because you’re living inside the body. you know. even when the scans don’t.
and then came exam season. which was awkward. because my hands were still not cooperating.i applied for a writer… my request was denied. apparently the national institute of technology believed i was perfectly capable of writing my own exams even when my handwriting strongly disagreed. at this point it looked less like handwriting and more like evidence from a crime scene.
so i wrote the exams myself… slowly, painfully. with hands that shook.
and somehow, because life was clearly being written by a comedian, i ended up scoring the highest marks in the most difficult subject. in another subject i got a 7… and it was the easiest one. which i think was the universe’s way of restoring balance.
eventually, after nearly two months of detective work, somebody prescribed a vitamin d test.
the result came back.
5.
not 50.
not 25.
five.
at that point i wasn’t a human being anymore. i was basically a decorative indoor plant. being indoors because of covid basically stripped me off of everything.
suddenly everything made sense. the weakness. the pain. the shaking. the exhaustion. the feeling that my body had quietly stopped participating in group projects.
and yet somehow the funniest part wasn’t the diagnosis. it was the reactions. because when i told people about it, some immediately found a way to make it my fault.
apparently i should have:
- played more sports
- gone outside more
- woken up at 6 am
- probably photosynthesized directly from the sun
thank you everyone. very helpful.
i’ll keep that in mind next time my skeleton decides to collapse.
looking back now, i joke about it. because that’s what i do. but i remember how scared i was. i remember wondering if this was permanent. i remember wondering if this was just how my life was going to be now. i remember being terrified that nobody seemed to know what was wrong.
eventually my hands recovered. the iphone was innocent. the scooty was innocent. the roti was innocent. it was me all along.
and before i end this story, if you’re reading this while your hands hurt, your legs hurt, you’re tired all the time, your body feels weird, and google has already convinced you that you’re dying...
please get a damn vitamin d test.
seriously.
it costs less than the three mris i got. don’t be me.
after surviving engineering, a broken ankle, and a body that occasionally decides to conduct surprise experiments, i’ve accepted that life is just a series of increasingly ridiculous plot twists.
this was simply one of them.
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