Finding Grace: A Young Woman’S Path to Diagnosis and Healing

By Monet Hall

Finding Grace is a play-by-play account of a young womans journey to a correct diagnosis.

On the cusp of twenty, Grace is beginning to believe that the disoriented fragments of her life are finally coming together, until an unforeseen illness savages her body and rescatters the many pieces.

Though Grace aspires to become a physician, her current state places her on the other side of the conversation. As the patient, Grace unlocks a hidden dimension to medicine that can only be accessed and felt by the individual being hospitalized. Bound to a bed, Grace has ample time to reflect on her life, society, and the meaning of her startling situation.

With irregular symptoms, strained family relations, and a cloud of uncertainty surrounding her future, Grace looks both to God and deep within herself for the strength to combat one of Americas least recognized major diseases.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532011832

Monet Hall

Monet Hall, presented as Grace in the narrative, is one of 1.5 million Americans battling SLE (systemic lupus erythematosus). Currently an undergraduate student, she is learning how to juggle academic excellence and a chronic illness. Though she is uncertain of her exact career projection, she finds herself drawn to the issues of mental health and mass incarceration. When class is not in session, Hall can be found in the Piney Woods of Deep East Texas.

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{    Chapter 1    }

My Introduction

My name is Grace. The due date for my birth was August 17, so my premature arrival on June 22 surprised the world. My middle name is French inspired; it rolled off the tongue. Well, it would have—if my mother had spelled it correctly. My grandmother Maime is a firm believer in God and miracles. She knew that because of God’s favor upon my life I would develop into a healthy, fully functional child, and so she named me Grace. She was right.

I guess I could mention that I have two younger siblings named Josiah and Trinity—we all have the religious thing going on with our names. Although I’ve been told the name Grace is simple and beautiful, it always seemed too basic for me. I always wanted a nickname—something catchy. Something clever. Unfortunately, I could never think of anything.

I am currently a sophomore in college on the premed track, with a major in biology and a minor in Spanish. I qualified for a program that supports high-achieving, economically disadvantaged students who are interested in the medical profession. In addition to having guaranteed acceptance into medical school, the program offers summer internships, with hands-on clinical experience, economic assistance during the remaining undergraduate semesters, MCAT (Medical College Admission Test) preparation courses, and a supportive network during the journey to becoming a doctor.

On February 8, I received an e-mail officially welcoming me into the program. Words cannot express how excited I was. Lately, I had been questioning my purpose in life. Why did I strive for things? Did anyone care if I was here or not? Would anything I did make a difference? This program yanked me from the negativity and sadness that was beginning to pool around me. It gave me the pick-me-up I needed and the confidence I couldn’t seem to find on my own.

Although I had survived the first round of premed courses, the road to becoming a doctor was like running a marathon—a long, seemingly unending process. Could the girl from humble beginnings, with parents who are both ex-convicts, really become a doctor? Could she even afford it? The odds were not in my favor. Fortunately, my program overpowered those odds and announced, Here’s your ticket.

At this same time, however, my body’s defenses slowly were declining, making me vulnerable to an onslaught of attacks for which I was unprepared.

I think it began in mid-January. My commitments had begun to pile up as the new semester kicked into full gear. I was taking seventeen credit hours, mostly science courses with labs and a couple of general education requirements as well. I also was on the track-and-field team and had two hours of practice each day. Research was another priority—I worked in Dr. Jewel’s lab studying lizards for a minimum of four hours per week.

I also tutored for an introductory biology course. I held office hours twice a week and attended the lecture period. Additionally, I belonged to a handful of on-campus clubs. I was sleeping an average of four to six hours per night. Even so, I did not see how anything could be eliminated from my schedule, so instead, I chose to be invincible.

My friends kept telling me to slow down. They said I needed to study less and go out more. They encouraged me to enjoy my undergraduate years before they were over. In my head, I answered, Completing my assignments is fun for me. I stand in the corner at parties. That’s not fun. We all study and hang out in my room every night. It’s fun, right? Productive and fun. Obviously, I ignored my friends’ advice and continued with my schedule.

I don’t remember the exact moment when I began to feel run-down, but at some point I realized I was falling asleep within minutes of laying my head on the pillow. Waking up was becoming more and more of a challenge, and I had to increase the number of alarms I set. Did that mean that I was sick or simply a college student?

Oddly, I noticed that the skin between my eyes was becoming darker. The skin on the sides of my face at my hairline was too. I asked my friends if they could see it. They laughed and said that of course my skin was dark; I was black. Oh yeah. Ha. That made sense, I responded. What about the fever, though? I thought. I kept feeling my forehead. It was hot. Hotter than hot. When I asked my friends to feel my forehead, they agreed that I was warm. We’re all warm—98.6 degrees to be exact, one said. Standard body temperature. God, they were so sarcastic. But they were also right. I needed to get it together. I was becoming paranoid, convincing myself that I was sick. Snap out of it, Grace!

My grandmother Maime called once a week, either on Saturday or on Sunday after church. Our conversations generally were the same. I’d give her a general rundown of the previous week, and she’d update me on my family. Then she would tell me that I sounded tired and needed to rest. She’s a grandmother; her job was to worry. I didn’t take her concerns seriously. Instead, I reassured her that I was okay, just really busy. After declaring our love for each other, we’d hang up. After each conversation, I would sit and ponder over what she had said. Was I doing too much? Did I really sound that tired? Nah. I’m fine, I’d tell myself. I’m surrounded by overcommitted college kids who are a little tired sometimes. That’s not rare; it just comes with the territory.

On February 3, I noticed crusting around my ears. I had never had eczema, but it seemed like a reasonable diagnosis. My aunt Gina and her children had it. Additionally, information in an Internet search revealed that eczema sometimes just appeared. That night I asked my friend Nallie to drive me to the store. We searched the skin-products section for ten minutes, but there were too many creams. Too many brands. Too many products that purportedly did the same thing. It was information overload. Nevertheless, we finally came to a decision. I purchased the brand with the largest bottle at the most reasonable price. On the way back to campus, Nallie was pulled over for speeding. As we sat in the car, waiting for the officer to approach, Nallie and I ate the fruit snacks I’d also purchased at the store. We weren’t panicked or afraid at all—until the police officer shined bright lights at us. What had we done? We saw that backup had come—three more police cars. For a speeding ticket? I was confused. Why did we need ten officers?

A Hispanic officer came to Nallie’s window. His hand was on his gun. The other officers were at the car. When Nallie rolled down the window, the officer seemed surprised to see two women—one Indian and one black—in the car. I was wearing a university shirt, and the officer asked if we were students.

Yes, we are, Nallie said.

This car was reported as stolen in another state, he told us.

My parents must have unknowingly bought a stolen car from a dealership back home, Nallie said.

The cop laughed. This could have been serious. When the plate was identified as stolen, I had to assume there was criminal activity. I was prepared to come to the car with weapons drawn and backup because normally a stolen car is a signal of potential violence.

That made sense. I was glad that our officers had taken precautions. After that, he forgot about the speeding. He just let us go because we were two minority women who attended a private school. He assumed we were not criminals.

I couldn’t help but think that if we had been two black males from a different university, the car would have been searched. Or worse, a trigger might have been pulled. Is it bad that I assumed that? Yes, it was a jaded perception of cops. But I begin to think further—race and law enforcement. Two entities that shouldn’t be in opposition and shouldn’t have to compete. By accepting one, we shouldn’t have to deny the other. But for some reason, we do. I think the source of the problem is labels—labels, assumptions, and a lack of communication.

As soon as we returned to campus, I applied the cream and went to sleep. For approximately the next week and a half, I faithfully applied the cream to my ears twice a day. I saw no results. On February 9, I met with Mrs. Ressa, the associate director of a graduate school preparation program, about summer research plans. Once we had developed a framework, her concerns shifted to my physical appearance.

You look rundown, she said. I’d suggest that you skip track practice and rest instead. As I begin listing the many reasons why I could not, she silenced me. Your health should be your number-one priority, she insisted.

Although I knew she was right, thirty minutes later I still found myself changing into athletic wear. I didn’t do well that day, but instead of acknowledging that Mrs. Ressa was right, I blamed my poor performance on the wind.

{    Chapter 2    }

The Black Man in the White Coat and Green Bacteria

My obsession with my ears was replaced by a new obsession—my throat began to hurt. I lost my appetite and could feel a decline in my energy level. Though I normally didn’t crave naps, they became a recurring thought. Nevertheless, despite my exhaustion, I kept up with my commitments. The show must go on, right? Right, Grace.

On February 14, I could no longer stand the difficulty in swallowing. Additionally, my breathing had become irregular. I knew that my roommate’s parents were both doctors—I had met them during the fall semester. I needed to talk to someone, so I gave her mother a call. After listing my symptoms for her and answering her questions, she suggested that I probably had strep throat. I got a prescription for antibiotics; I just needed a friend to drive me to the nearest pharmacy.

My roommate Dee offered me her car. Though I greatly appreciated the gesture, I was hesitant to accept. I’m from a small town—we have two main streets and only have traffic for funeral processions and on graduation day. I was terrified of driving in the city. Fortunately, my other roommate, Emmy, offered to drive me. I hated having to depend on others, but she took me to the pharmacy the following day, February 15.

After receiving my prescription, I stopped at the Help Desk, where a black male pharmacist asked how he could help me. Wow, I thought. A black male in this pharmacy? You don’t see that every day. It’s awesome. He has a great smile too. I’ll remember him.

Do you know of a medication or ointment for eczema? I asked.

I can’t prescribe anything, but there are many generic over-the-counter creams for eczema. You should take care, though, in applying cream to your ears. The interior skin is very thin and very sensitive.

I gulped. I had been applying cream to the interior—I’d already used half of it. Feeling guilty, I thanked him and left.

I took my first pill when we returned to campus. It probably was not ideal to take the medication on an empty stomach, but I still had no appetite.

On February 16, I woke up to green bacteria and blood oozing from my ears. Additionally, the crusting around the edges had spread to the interior and back of my ears. I immediately called the campus Health Services, and the nurse told me to come in for examination immediately. If my condition was as severe as I had described, she would try to schedule an appointment with a doctor. Agreeing to her plan of action, I hung up and readied myself for the visit.

As I was getting dressed, I remembered that Health Services charged students for seeing the doctor. My bank account balance was low after paying for my prescription yesterday, so I called my grandfather Curtis to ask what I should do. He encouraged me to call my mother to ask about my insurance, which should cover the cost of future appointments and medication. With that in mind, I called her right away.

Instead of helping, she said, You no longer have health insurance. When you turned nineteen, you were dropped from my plan.

I had turned nineteen seven months ago. I immediately yelled, Mom! How could you put me in this situation? There’s a document on file at my university stating that I rejected my school’s insurance because I have my own. Now you’re telling me that I don’t have any at all? What if I had been injured? That invalid insurance card is in a file folder with my name on it as we speak!

She roared back, Grace, I am your mother! Stop yelling at me! I’m calling your daddy now. I’m calling Lucious. I’ll take care of it.

I hung up and called Curtis again. He said to let my parents take care of it.

Let them take care of it? I echoed. When have they ever taken care of anything? Okay, that was a low blow, Grace.

Don’t worry about the money, Curtis said. I’m in a good place financially. I’ll deposit money into your account.

Letting out a sigh of relief, I thanked him.

I’d no sooner hung up with Curtis than my mother, Tasha, called back. Ten people are on Lucious’s insurance plan, him and nine of his ten kids—everyone except you.

I was shocked but not hurt by this information. I didn’t expect anything from my father. How could I? We didn’t even communicate.

I tutored because I loved biology, but it also helped me to support myself. I hated having to call home and ask for money. Though my family would bend over backward to make sure I was provided for, I wasn’t comfortable putting them in that situation. They already had so many other expenses and responsibilities. Money was always stretched so thin. If I could take care of myself, I did. That was one less thing for them to worry about. They didn’t ask me to do that, but I felt obligated. Additionally, I’m just independent and a tad bit secretive. But this time, I needed help. I needed money. I was grateful that Curtis had it to give. After the phone calls finally ended, I finished getting dressed and took the strep medication, and then Dee drove me to Health Services.

On the way over, I thought about my predicament. I felt guilty about needing money from Curtis. Sure, he was my grandfather, but he also had other responsibilities. We couldn’t afford illness right now. If only it could come back at a more convenient time or just not at all. Then I thought about Dee having to drive me, and I felt even guiltier. I knew that she didn’t mind, but I felt so helpless. I didn’t have a car. I didn’t have money. Currently, I didn’t have anything. It sucked. But hey, that’s why I was in college; I was in the process of bettering myself. What’s a story without struggle?

You’ve come too far to pity yourself now, Grace, I thought. No one asked to be born privileged, and definitely no one asked to be disadvantaged. It was like rolling the dice or playing a card game. Once you receive your cards, that’s it. You just have to do your best with what you have. But when the cards are exchanged or shuffled, sometimes you come out better. Sure, a bit of it has to do with strategy and planning, but mostly it’s up to luck. Your hand sucks right now, Grace, I told myself, but that can change. It will change. In the meantime, just play your cards to the best of your ability, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.

When I entered the campus health center, I was immediately taken to an examination room, stopping on the way to check my weight. I weighed 180 pounds when I had my physical to clear me for track and field just a few weeks ago. I was now 167 pounds.

Whoa, that’s extreme, right? I said to the nurse.

Yes, that’s remarkable, actually.

I had been trying to gain muscle and shape up for my throwing events. I did disc, hammer, javelin, and shot. Having muscles was a must. I skipped out on lifting weights from time to time if practice ran late, but other than that, I was dedicated to getting stronger and performing well this season. Therefore, this weight loss was incredibly annoying and frustrating, especially when I was projected to win first place this year.

When the nurse saw my ears, she was taken aback. This is serious, she said, but the doctor’s specialty is dermatology. If you come back at 1:45, she should be here. She’ll know exactly what to do—or at least to whom she should direct you.

I agreed to come back, and then I e-mailed my professor for my 2:15 class to inform her I’d probably be absent. I waited in terror until 1:45.

Tasha and my aunt Gina hypothesized that I was allergic to the nickel in cheap earrings, so I removed them. Jan, a friend I met through the graduate school preparation program, knew about my sickness and noticed that I hadn’t been present for our weekly meeting. I had completely forgotten about the meeting—I’d been too worried about my ears and a lack of health insurance. Being the thoughtful person that she was, Jan called to ask about my absence.

When I informed her of my dilemma, she said, Do you want a smoothie? A smoothie will make it better. They make everything better.

Hmm, a smoothie, I responded. Why yes, Jan, I do.

I’ll be there in ten minutes, Jan said.

Thirty minutes later, Jan appeared at my door—she’d been delayed by the lunchtime rush, and the smoothie was now a soup-like drink. She apologized profusely, but I didn’t mind. It was something soothing going down my throat, and it had calories. I needed calories.

Jan looked at me and smiled. Then her gaze drifted to my ears. She didn’t flinch. I’ve seen worse, she said when I asked what she thought. In fact, they’re not bad at all.

She was lying. They were horrendous. That was just the future doctor in her speaking. Then she distracted me with stories and her positive outlook on life.

Jan is a ray of sunshine, I thought. She’s bubbly. Crazy. Spontaneous. Friendly. At the time, we were new friends. I didn’t expect our relationship to blossom so quickly or to explode with so much vigor, but it did.

Socializing with Jan, I lost track of the time, and 1:45 came sooner than expected. After hugging her and thanking her for her company, I drove Dee’s car to Health Services.

When the doctor saw my ears, she immediately became excited and exclaimed, Yes! You have bacteria in your ears. This is something exciting! This is what I live for!

I understood exactly what she meant. This was her specialty, something she was passionate about. I got it, but I couldn’t help thinking, I can’t believe you just said that. My ears are falling apart, a visible part of my self-conscious body. And that’s what you have to say? I am so thrilled that I can bring you gunk in my ears to satisfy your craving.

She then sat down with her light and her cotton swab, and the examination began. Her diagnosis was seborrheic dermatitis and secondary impetigo. She explained, In the wintertime, it becomes very difficult for individuals to retain moisture in their skin. In your case, your ears became dry, and cracks formed without your realizing it. Bacteria then slowly formed in the cracks—possibly since December. Those bacteria gave birth to more bacteria.

I thought, The strep! I stopped being as attentive to my ears when the strep appeared! Because my immune system was weak from the strep, nothing was fighting off the bacteria. To make matters worse, I had also introduced a new medication into my system, the strep pills. Could that have something to do with it?

I asked her.

Possibly, she said. It was probably a combination of multiple things that resulted in an intensified appearance of the bacteria and induced growth almost overnight.

In addition to my ears, the skin around my eyebrows was dry, and dark spots had appeared across my forehead. The doctor reasoned that was another symptom of the ear infection.

Yes. Dark spots and dry skin, she said. It’s coupled with the infection. Symptoms came in pairs. Then she inquired, "Anything else, Grace?