I’m sick. Over break, I took NyQuil in New Orleans, Advil in Atlanta and laxatives at my cousin’s wedding in LA. In Oregon, I lay half conscious on my aunt’s day bed, surrounded by tissues and peppermint tea. The whole time, my legs ached; they’d crack each time I stepped. When I walked, it sounded like drumming. I felt like one of those snap bracelets you’d had as a kid; one minute my legs would be curled up on the couch, the next they’d snap and lock out, sending ripples of pain down through my feet and up to my groin.

I went to a pediatrician, then a rheumatologist, then a woman specializing in infectious disease. I got blood drawn three times. I also spent a lot of time pooping into a green plastic bag and scooping the stuff into eight tiny vials.  

All my tests came back negative.

“We can see you’re sick,” the doctors said. “But your blood work looks great. You definitely don’t have cancer. It’s like arthritis, but isn’t.”

“Awesome,” I said. “That’s great.”

There’s this famous parable with frogs and boiling water. In the first instance, a frog is placed in boiling water and immediately jumps out. It’s hot! In the second, the frog is placed in a pot of cool water, which is slowly brought to a boil. The transition is so gradual the frog never notices and cooks.

It’s the same with being sick.

These days, it’s normal for me to walk down the stairs to the sound of my body banging out the rhythms of a mariachi band. But this shouldn’t feel normal. I don’t want to wake up a year from now and think it’s commonplace to spend hours on the couch, starting my day with one Aleve, two Tylenol, and half a dozen supplements and vitamins. I don’t want to believe that the pain, the whining, the binge watching seasons of The Bachelor, then The Bachelorette, then the genius that is Bachelor in Paradise is normal.

I don’t want to think this might never go away.

For me, the worst part of being sick is the uncertainty. When am I going to feel better? What’s happening to my body? Am I getting better or worse?

I’ve been sick so long I can’t trust my body’s cues. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be healthy. I’ve repressed it, I had to. Because if I compared my legs now to the ones I had two months ago—my Bachelor on the treadmill versus Bachelor in bed legs— I’d jump out of the boiling water screaming.

It took me two months to realize I was sick. It’s taken another to figure out what’s wrong, and it’ll take one more to hopefully cure it.

So this month, each time I pop my Aleve and Advil and antibiotics, I’m going to close my eyes and remember going on a long run, climbing with my mom, shopping at Target without getting tired and sitting down.

And I’m going to tell myself that’s what’s normal. Not this.