Nadia Toth

Michko

E Period

3 June 2024

Poetic Treatment

I’m usually the youngest person sitting in the neurology waiting room. At first, my

diagnosis made me furious. How was I, a newly-sixteen year old, diagnosed with a condition

usually reserved for those well into their senior years? The waiting room, filled with elderly

patients, served as a constant reminder of my youth and the life I felt was being robbed from me.

Instead of going to the mall to try out every Bath & BodyWorks perfume with my friends,

the nauseating smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol lingered on my clothes. I have spent

countless hours in doctor’s offices and medical facilities, enduring tests and treatments that most

teenagers couldn’t even pronounce. While my peers were worrying about prom dresses and

weekend plans, I was grappling with the uncertainty of my health and the looming specter of a

condition I barely understood. As I sat in that waiting room, surrounded by the ticking clock and

the murmured conversations of patients and their caregivers, I couldn't help but feel a sense of

injustice. It wasn’t fair that I, a high school student with my whole life ahead of me, should be

burdened with the diagnosis of small fiber neuropathy. As much as I appreciated the care I was

getting, I resented the hand I had been dealt, the way it seemed to rob me of the carefree

existence I had once taken for granted. My days of being a summer camp counselor were now

replaced by time taken off to deal with dizzy spells and migraines and the kids I babysat could

tell I wasn’t like the characters they saw on television.

 “Why is your hand shaking like that?” Innocent questions like this hit me like a ton of

bricks. The same ton of bricks I fainted on that July day, landing me with a concussion and yet

another setback on my road to recovery. As I navigated through my new reality I felt that with

every glance I took looking at my friends, and their seemingly-perfect lives, I was here. Stuck in

a constant cycle of being “the medical kid.”

But as one neurology follow-up appointment turned into two, and three, and one in

August and one the week of my birthday, I spent the time in the waiting room watching the other

patients shuffle in and out. I couldn’t help but marvel at their resilience. Despite facing their own

battles with aging and illness, they were still here, still fighting, still embracing each day with a

quiet determination. And in their perseverance, I found inspiration. I realized that I had been

given a gift--the gift of time. Unlike many of the patients around me, I still had decades ahead of

me to pursue my dreams, experience life’s highs and lows, to make mistakes and learn from

them. And suddenly, the anger I had felt towards my diagnosis transformed into a sense of

gratitude--a reminder to cherish every moment and seize every opportunity.

So, I made a promise to myself right then and there. I would not let my diagnosis define

me. Instead, I took the hand I had once resented and I took it to the stage. I wrote about every

aspect of my life and performed it as poetry. This diagnosis I had thought would take everything

from me gave me so much more. As I stood on stages of slam competitions and open mic events,

I poured my heart and soul into the words I could come up with. The audiences filled with

people who, like me, seek solace and understanding of their own lives. I stopped hiding from my

truth. Instead, I bared my soul, unapologetically sharing my deepest fears and biggest

accomplishments.
 At a slam competition a few months ago, I was in the wings waiting to be introduced to

the stage. My poem I chose to perform is the most brutally honest confessions of my reality

living with a chronic illness. I knew in my heart this is what I wanted people to know, but I still

couldn’t shake that feeling of vulnerability that came with sharing such intimate parts of myself

with a room full of strangers. The dim backstage lighting cast shadows around me, heightening

my nerves as I rehearsed my lines under my breath. Finally, it was my turn to step into the

spotlight. The stage lights blinded me temporarily and I took one final breath as I adjusted the

microphone. The first few words came out a bit shaky, but I found my rhythm and footing. After

the blur of performing came down and I was walking offstage to return to my seat, the host

pulled me aside for one second of clarity.

“I love the bravery it takes to share your truth. Poetry, it’s about connection. About

finding our shared humanity.” I couldn’t tell if my hands were shaking from nerves or from my

nerves. The small nerve fibers my body attacks as if they are foreign objects that don’t belong.

He was right though. Maybe small fiber neuropathy took away my dreams of a normal

teenagehood, but the replacement life it gave me is better than I could have imagined. The buzz

of anticipation backstage, the nods of agreement, the scattered snaps, became my extacy. I found

my cure in my own voice. Because I am lucky enough to volunteer myself as the youngest

patient in a room of people seeking treatment.