I was sitting up on my hospital bed, staring out the window. My mind was occupied with a hurtful thought. A piece of orange entered my mouth while a tear exited my eye. Thinking became praying. Praying became asking. Why did God not protect me? Why did he let the seed of Tuberculosis grow in my 16-year-old lung? I stopped asking, fearing it might break into blaming. I dared not voice any hint of anger, although deep down it might have been clear.
Seconds later, a figure was visible in my peripheral view. Yellow blouse, skinny jeans, black long hair, and the familiar Bible in her hand. Now I can’t remember her name, but I know I used to call her My, short for mommy. For the sake of this story, let’s call her Anna. I and the other teams call Ana "My" because we saw her as a mother figure in our faith in Christ. She was seen as a mother nurturing us with the word of God. She, together with some of my Bible study peers, visited to pray over me in the hospital. Hands raised over me while curious eyes stared over us, but I did not mind. It felt so good to be prayed for like a portion of the sky opened up and let a ray of light shine just for me. My heart found comfort and hope, but that did not last long.
After the prayer, Anna held my hand and let loose a deep breath. We looked at each other for a couple of seconds before she revealed what was on her mind.
"This might sound hurtful and sad, but God revealed to me that there will be no healing for you unless your parents offer their lives to the Lord and come with us," she said.
Words got stuck in my throat. I swallowed them all and hope went down with them. I let another tear do the talking. All the other interactions with them that day never made it to my memory. How could I think of other things when I was going to die? I was sure death was near, and I remembered how I got so close to it.
A few months before being infected, I found myself attending a different church. My family, especially my father, did not take it so well. He cut my allowance, so I ended up walking a few kilometers from home to church just to attend service every Sunday. I got slapped in the face for my choice. I also ran away from home for a few days just to prove my heart was set on my newfound way of life and worship. Those were the sacrifices I gladly offered, and I regretted nothing. My blazing faith made me hungry for more of God’s presence. When I learned there would be a week-long Bible study in another church, I and some friends decided to attend. That time, I didn’t think of anything else, only learning more about God.
Then the changes happened. Days after the Bible study, beauty found a hole and leaked out of my face. No matter how I style my hair, I looked unattractive. I knew my observation was not exclusive to me. My classmates saw it too. My health drastically declined, and my chest started hurting every time I breathe.
When the reason for this decline was found out, suspicions circulated that I got it from one of the members of the church where we attended the Bible study for a week. This got more believable when days after my diagnosis, two other friends who came with me were infected too.
The disease not only hurt my body. It also hurt my chances of convincing my parents to let me worship God the way I wanted let alone invite them to come to service with me. Every day in the hospital my family reminded me whether in words or silence that my sickness was a warning, a sign that I should reassess my religion. My family will never see this as a blessing. They would never change their ways. For that failure, I would not be healed. I lost the battle to win my parents' souls, and I lost a part of my devotion to God. Those were the thoughts that kept ringing in my head like constant drops that created ripples of anxiety.
My attendance at the new church got more seldom as time passed. My ties with the organization snapped one day at a time until I felt I am no longer connected to them. What was worse was that more time later, my relationship with God got severed and I am no longer the girl who was hungry for His presence. Shame and doubt clouded my divine communication, and time did not fix that.
Contrary to my anxious expectation of physical death, I got completely healed after nine months of treatment. However, I could not say I am healthy. I lost something more precious than life, and perhaps that was death already.