“You don’t seem to understand,” I told our mortgage broker. “If
we don’t get this house this week, we won’t have anywhere to live…”
The young man smiled beguiling at me and spoke in a “there-there”
fashion. “I promise you, it’ll all be worth it in the end.”
“No,” I assured him. “It will not. It’s actually been making
me sick…”
Looking back a year and a half ago, I remember when it all
started. The stress from buying the house was immense. I’ve always internalized
my stress and tried to just swallow it down, deep inside of me, hoping that if
it wasn’t visible to the rest of the world, then I’d have a fighting chance of
beating it. But this time, it was difficult…
Our beautiful 1932, historic house was a dream come true.
The first time I saw it; I just drove by and noticed the gorgeous sunroom that
jutted off to the side. I knew what I would do with that room. It would be my
study. It would be my writing room. It would be my inspiration. My novel would
be written there. Then, our realtor took us to look at it and it was as
beautiful on the inside as I had imagined. Original hardwood floors, pre-war
glass windows, and “diamond door knobs” as my father called the clear glass
knobs with original locks that can only be opened with skeleton keys.
We were in love. But then we decided to buy it, and all hell
broke loose.
I won’t go into all the problems that we had with an archaic
system that assumes the man has the better credit, or the three times they
pushed back our closing date, which almost led to homelessness. What I will
mention, though, is the fact that the law firm we were working with as our
mediator for all paper-signing, lost our earnest deposit check.
I do have to admit, though, that we did something we never
should have—so this one may be kind
of on us. We were asked to send our earnest deposit check by taking a photo of
it and sending it to the law firm. We had done that before with another house
that we almost bought, and we were assured multiple times that this is how it’s
usually done in the industry. It seemed… normal, especially in this digital day
and age.
We don’t know exactly what happened, but I woke up one Saturday
morning and looked at our bank account, and it was wiped clean. Nothing was
left. The money we had been saving for the new house was just…gone. Further
inspection revealed a check we had never written… yet from the photo that the
bank provided, I recognized it as the check we used for our earnest deposit.
We went through all the usual channels in order to get the
money back, and the bank was extremely helpful, but by the time it was put back
in the account, the hacker had re-used the check by “whiting out” the old
information and putting in different information… but this time, she used her
real name. I did some significant online snooping and found someone by that
name, who lived nearby, and for other reasons I won’t mention here, I was about
98% certain I had found the thief. We filed a case with the police and gave
them all the information, but they never did anything about it. It wasn’t
important enough for them to investigate—but it was important to us. In the
span of about 4 days, our account had been wiped clean twice.
For anyone who has bought a house before, you know that the
one thing they tell you not to do is close or open any new bank accounts. It
looks like fraud. But, we had no choice but to close the hacked account. That
started the real problem. We suddenly had to tell our mortgage people every
single purchase we had made in the last 3 months, and every purchase we would
continue to make. Every single thing had to be sent to them in a long running
list. It was a hassle.
While the bank account debacle was definitely the worst part
of our stress during that time, there were quite a few other things that did
not go well. I won’t go into those right now, because they involve other people
and it’s not my place to mention them, but it was around this time that I
realized one night that I wasn’t able to swallow anymore.
Not food. Not liquids. And at some times, not even my own saliva.
Something wasn’t right…
I went to a few doctors. I saw a therapist. But nothing
seemed to help. I chalked it up to stress, but the stress of not being able to
eat or drink stressed me out more than anything else.
But time doesn’t stop for you to recover. I still had to go
to work. I still had to go through the house-buying process. I still had to
live my life. I just had to live it in starvation and thirst.
As time ticked by, I started to be able to eat again a
little, but by that time, I had lost 25 lbs. I told everyone that it was
because I was dieting. That was somewhat true, because I had been dieting before
the swallowing issue started, so some of the weight-loss was intentional. But
the last 10 or 15 lbs were not.
Eventually, food became easier, but liquids did not. If I
took a sip bigger than half a teaspoon’s worth, I’d choke just trying to put it
in the back of my throat. It just wouldn’t go down. I’d have to fight with my
own throat in order to power any liquids down. Thicker liquids were better, and
sometimes I could eat an apple and feel somewhat refreshed. But for about a
year and a half, I was dehydrated. I craved water like nothing else. To this
day, when I see someone tip up a glass to take a drink, I watch them intently,
wishing that I could do the same.
Finally, I got fed up and went back to my doctor. He ran me through
a round of tests: a scope down my nose into my stomach and the dreaded Barium
swallow. I’ll never forget that one. I could barely finish that test, but once I
was finally done, a very terrified-looking nurse in training took me aside and
whispered, “I have the exact same problem,” and then hurried frightfully away.
I felt for her. I don’t know why, but there is something about swallowing
issues that feel—embarrassing, as if it should be something that you should
just be able to force yourself to do.
For 6 months the doctor had me on a regiment of allergy and
acid reflux medications. And to be honest, it actually has kind of helped. I began
to eat fully again, and as weird as this is going to sound, I was able to drink
water from a water fountain. There is something about taking in water that way that
is easier than using a cup or a bottle. I still wasn’t able to drink properly,
but at least I could go to a water fountain (or stick my head under a running
sink) and quench my thirst for the first time in about 18 months.
At the last appointment with my doctor, he told me that I suffer
from sever acid reflux due to extreme stress—the stress that began with buying
the house, was intensified by the major house repairs we had to do (that’s
another story, though), and any other stress that I encounter.
I still have bad days, where if work has been particularly
stressful, or I fight with a family member or someone, suddenly I find myself
unable to eat. But generally after a few days (and a few pounds dropped), I’m
able to eat again.
What I really miss is being able to just drink properly from
a cup. Every little sip of a liquid is a fight. I have to take 3 swallows just
to ingest a small mouthful of water. The doctor says that the damage that the
acid reflux left in my esophagus will take time to be repaired, so it’s hard to
say when—if ever, I’ll be able to drink normally again. The best I can do now
is try to rest, relax, and not get so worked up about life.
Easier said than done, of course, but for me, I’ve already
decided on what my New Year’s resolution will be. I’m going to take life a
little slower. I’m going to stay home more. I’m going to spend time with my
husband. I’m going to welcome my loved ones into my home—but I’m probably not
going to be running around as much as I did in 2018.
I just need to heal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go
find a water fountain…
