Whether we like it or not, our decisions in life are often made because of issues we can’t control.

I had to learn this the hard way when I didn’t get to come to the University of Michigan my freshman year.
It started my senior year of high school, when my health rapidly deteriorated. I went from being an active, athletic teenager to not being able to climb a flight of stairs without help.

The first sign of my condition appeared when my feet seemed to gain 10 pounds after a workout. Within days, the swelling crept up my legs, giving me cankles, a tragedy for any 17-year-old. When it was clear the problem wasn’t going away on its own, I showed my mom.

That’s when the never-ending parade of visits to the doctor began.

First I was told I had “hormones” and to wait it out. When this didn’t work, I was given high dosage Lasix, or water pills, to flush out the excess fluid in my legs, which was what caused the weight gain. When Lasix didn’t work, I was given more, which still didn’t work. This continued for over a month, with the doctor simply telling my mom and me not to worry so much about my mystery condition. “Stop thinking this was a zebra when it was really just a horse,” he said.

Meanwhile, I continued to deteriorate. Regular doses of water pills had taken their toll on my body. The swelling got worse, my face turned pallid, my hair thinned and I could never manage to keep warm.

Watching me grow worse, my mom became more and more insistent that I see a specialist. First I visited a cardiologist, who checked me into the hospital and referred me to a nephrologist, who promptly scheduled me for a kidney biopsy and myriad other tests.

My kidney biopsy was the worst experience of my life. Instead of being sedated for the procedure, I was only given something to relax and a topical anesthetic that was slathered all over my back. I was painfully aware as the doctors measured my back and drew on me with a marker like I was a poster illustrating the cuts of meat on a cow. Then, face down, I had to hold my breath as a needle was inserted directly into my back. I learned later that when you hold your breath your kidneys hold still, making it easier for the doctor to get a sample.

After this ordeal, we found out the sample taken was from the wrong part of my kidney, so I had to have the whole procedure done again. Meanwhile, I got sicker and sicker, and the things I enjoyed became harder and harder to do — like going to school, playing sports, driving and being with my friends. I no longer felt like myself or even really recognized the shell of a person I had become. It was not the senior year I’d bargained for.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with a rare, chronic kidney disease, which made accepting my offer to attend the University of Michigan out of the question.

In the end, I interviewed for a full-tuition scholarship at a southern liberal arts college, which I attended because its small size made getting to class from my dorm room possible.

It was by no means easy. I had to live in a handicapped room, my classes were moved to the first floor of buildings because I couldn’t climb stairs, and I was always ill — I took up to 15 pills a day.

I grieved deeply, something I hadn’t done since I lost my dad years earlier. I felt guilty and even selfish for feeling the way I did because I was only grieving for myself — the person I used to be and the future I had wanted. I went from being someone who thought she knew her path in life to feeling like I was living in submission to my health. Some kind of health-related episode — from food poisoning to meningitis — constantly hindered my lifestyle.

Tired of wallowing in self-pity, I joined an online support group for people with my disease and found a large community of support. There, I learned that diagnosis of my disease in someone my age is as rare as finding a four-leaf clover — just the kind of luck I didn’t want.

With time, vigilance, medicine and hard work, I slowly improved and I realized what I still had despite my ordeal. I learned to take nothing for granted. That’s why when my health stabilized, I set my sights on finally getting to the University of Michigan. And this fall, I transferred here.

After all of the extra work I put in to get here — not academically, but emotionally and physically — I have a poignant appreciation of my ability to climb the stairs to class and attain the college education I had always taken for granted. I know the world works in mysterious ways, but sooner or later, we all get where we’re supposed to be. A bumpy journey just makes the destination that much more meaningful.

—Ashlyn Gurley is a staff writer for The Statement