“It’s almost spring, and I haven’t gotten sick yet,” I announced to my roommate before a night out — only to wake up the next morning with a 101-degree fever, regrettably jinxing myself. As I’m currently stuck in bed watching Netflix, chugging Pedialyte, and counting the hours until the next round of Tylenol, I’m reminded of my past battles against the infamous freshman flu. In fact, my freshman experience was defined by medical emergencies: swollen lymph nodes, and relentless coughing in midterms and dining hall meetups.Â
While these bouts of sickness were unbearable, and at times FOMO-inducing, they also fostered the most growth in my time at Berkeley. Looking back at my sickness journey, it’s easy to sympathize with the discomfort and find amusement in my medical ignorance, but I’ve also learned to appreciate the resilience college illnesses have given me.Â
During my first month of college, I felt invincible — pulling all-nighters in dorm rooms while somehow making it to every lecture. However, when my first cold set in, it didn’t go away. As my nose ran and my throat grew sore, I was determined to find relief. Rummaging through my college-essentials first aid kit, I found a pill labeled Diphenhydramine, which according to the fine print, promised to alleviate all my symptoms. It wasn’t until a week later, while debriefing my unexplained drowsiness on the phone with my mom, that I learned Diphenhydramine was the scientific name for household Benadryl — which was effectively sedating me for my 10 a.m. lectures.
Since my attempts at self-medicating proved ineffective, and my cough only worsened, I made the well-traveled march down Bancroft Way to the University Health Services Tang Center. There, I was prescribed a new pill, Amoxicillin, to treat my developing infection. Feeling accomplished, my freshman year adventures resumed, with one particular night ending in a sleepover in a dorm across campus. Waking up the next morning, I noticed hives extending down my abdomen, but I brushed them off as the result of presumably unwashed sheets and finished the course of my antibiotics.
It wasn’t until the rash spread across my chest and my face swelled that I called my mom, who informed me of amoxicillin rash, which in extreme cases can lead to anaphylaxis. After blissfully ignoring the rash’s onset for 12 hours and taking my last pill, I felt my throat swell. By 11pm, there was no other option but to call 911 and wait for the EMTs to arrive in the unfortunate setting of the dorm courtyard.Â
Anxiously awaiting their arrival, I distractedly laughed with friends through shallow breaths, until an ambulance approached. After receiving epinephrine and being frivolously placed onto a stretcher, I was sent to Alta Bates medical center. At 5 a.m., exhausted and drugged with no one awake to pick me up, I was handed a series of taxi lines to call for a ride back to the dorm (I have since downloaded Uber).
After the first semester’s health trials, I was excited to navigate my spring course load in good health. However, a new semester brought new adversaries: mono and influenza. Throughout semester two, I missed nearly four weeks of lectures — my days instead filled by fever dreams, Mezzo soup deliveries from friends, and a visit from my parents at the Graduate Hotel when my fever peaked at 103 degrees. While sickness shifted my weeks from academic and self exploration, to recovery and distress, I felt more connected with my peers than isolated.Â
The common ground for nearly all first years is a medical center, and I found sickness to be an unexpected bonding experience. In weeks of good health, I accompanied my friends to Walgreens for eye drops, shared Dayquil with roommates, and even spent a week at Stanford Medical when a friend’s mono developed into encephalitis. While my parents were always a call away — and I frequently benefited from their health advice — college forced me to develop resilience against a weak immune system, and most importantly: appreciate the strength of my support system.