The Days My Body Failed Me and I Had to Learn to Walk Again

I’ve rarely been sick in my life. Honestly, fever has always been the most uncomfortable thing I deal with, and even then, maybe once a year, sometimes twice, sometimes not at all. But otherwise, my body usually feels reliable, even if it’s a bit sensitive. I sneeze a lot—dust, smells, sunlight hitting my eyes, temperature changes—sometimes even during a shower or just lying down. It’s not illness, really, more like my body reacting in its own way. I just live with it.

And yeah, when I do get a fever, I sometimes shower because I feel hot, and I rarely take medicine unless it’s severe. I’ve never liked chemical or generic drugs. So, mostly, I rely on my body to get through things naturally, even if uncomfortable.

But 2019... 2019 was different.

It started with my foot. Something that had never been a real problem suddenly turned serious. My foot got infected—badly. For months, I couldn’t stand or walk. The infection almost went through the sole. I remember blood, dark, almost black, seeping through the bandage. One night, there was this..., I don’t even like thinking about it—fluid from my foot pooled on the floor, maybe half a glass, just overnight. It felt like my body had betrayed me.

A local doctor, someone I guess you could call a neighbor, said it was an infection. That made sense, I suppose, but I wasn’t entirely sure. My foot had always swollen sometimes, but never like this. I’d tried some traditional remedies before, not to heal this specifically, but maybe they contributed. Then my older sister brought me medicine—not prescribed by a doctor, just a judgment. I feel confident saying that only made things worse. It was like one small misstep after another that compounded the problem.

A few days later, I ended up in the hospital. First time ever. I don’t think I realized just how serious it would feel. I was immediately attended to by several nurses—they said waiting could worsen the decay. And, well... ugh. The procedure. They tried inserting something into my foot, which was nearly hollow, and there was no anesthetic. The pain... I don’t know, Andy, it might be the worst I’ve ever felt. I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes, and, there was a moment I’d rather not mention. But I see now that’s okay. My body reacted the only way it could.

During all this, my mind was all over the place. Diabetes crossed my thoughts—the fear of possible amputation. My imagination just ran ahead of reality. It was terrifying, honestly. But in the end, it wasn’t diabetes. It was a severe infection, yes, but manageable.

And then there was my aunt suggesting I see a psychiatrist. She insisted it wasn’t because I was crazy, which... I know, it’s the kind of thing people feel they have to clarify. People have often said I have “too many thoughts.” Teachers mentioned it back in school. I think it’s always been part of me—maybe overthinking sometimes, processing more than most people notice. It’s not illness. Just... me.

I didn’t even stay a week in the hospital. I asked to go home because the place was overwhelming—nurses’ schedules, constant checks, smells, the whole atmosphere. It made me dizzy. Still, I got some medical notes that day. Seeing my blood sugar levels normal gave me a strange kind of relief. No diabetes. But my mind still circled back to one question: Will I ever walk properly again? After months of being unable to stand, the idea of regaining balance and coordination felt uncertain.

Returning home, the recovery was slow but steady. I had to relearn some basic movements, feel my balance again, trust my foot and my body. Each step was a reminder that even a body that rarely falls ill can suddenly demand all your attention.

Looking back now, I realize something: this wasn’t just about sickness or infection. It was about trusting your body when it fails, facing fear and uncertainty, and surviving when you feel utterly powerless. My usual sneezy, sensitive, but reliable body had shown me its limits. And, well, I survived. I walked again. My foot healed. My balance returned.

And honestly, I feel grateful. Not in a flashy “look how strong I am” way, but quiet gratitude for the fact that my body endured, my mind endured, and I’m here, reflecting on it now. Those days were the worst I’ve lived, without a doubt, but they also taught me—maybe more than any small discomfort ever did—that health isn’t just about being free from illness. It’s about enduring uncertainty, discomfort, and sensitivity, and coming through intact.

Yeah... that’s how it feels, reflecting back.