I must be crazy. I must be insane. The doctor said so. The doctor said so

As told to Rochel Samet

For the first hour, I’m glad to be back at school. Then I escape to the bathroom, lean my aching head against the mirror, and try to work out why, exactly, I was eager to leave the house this morning.

Pesach vacation was a long blur of dizzying symptoms. Of course, Ma insisted that we go to the rheumatologist appointment. More questions, more blood tests, more mysteries. The results were all okay, except for something to do with thyroid. Thyroid? We’d been through that before.

So the road was closed. No more doctors, no more tests, no answers. Just joint pain and stomach cramps and nausea and exhaustion and fears, and nights waking up in cold sweat.

Pesach cleaning was impossible, and Pesach itself not much better. Last week was Chaim’s wedding, it’s a blur in my mind already. And now I’m back at school, and hiding out in the bathroom, feeling nauseous.

The bell rings. I should try to get to the next class, at least.

Just my luck, I turn the corner and nearly crash into Miss Halb, who just finished teaching my class. Awkward.

She doesn’t look fazed. “Libby, we missed you in class,” she says. I flush. There’s nothing to say.

Miss Halb rummages in her bag. “I have something for you, actually,” she says. “I know you haven’t been feeling well for a while. I just wanted to tell you, I have a cousin, she’s a little older than you, lives out of town – she has a condition called Crohn’s. She’s happy to talk about stuff, medical struggles, you know.” She finally pulls a folded slip of paper out her bag. I take it because I can’t think of what else to do. “If you want to give her a call, this is her number,” Miss Halb finishes. She hitches her bag over her shoulder and walks off.

As soon as I can, I stuff the slip of paper into my own bag, all the way at the bottom. There’s no way I’m calling anyone.