My mother always used to say that I was “different” as a child—for two reasons. Firstly, I was a straight-A student, sailing through school, securing a place at a prestigious university, and getting my Ph.D. by 28. Secondly? I was the fat kid, the one that was overweight no matter how hard I tried to lose weight.
The last years of my doctorate were so stressful that the pressure was overwhelming. I was so busy working on my dissertation that I didn’t sleep all night, I skipped my meals, and I hardly moved from my desk. On paper, I was a star—published articles, authored books, appeared like a rising academic celebrity. However, my body was failing. The stomach pain that I suffered from was continuous, I could not sleep, and the mornings were very difficult for me as I had to run to the toilet frequently.
I acted like it was not a big deal. Just stress. Simple insomnia. It will get better.
After receiving my degree, I got a job as an associate professor. Then the doctor was doing my pre-employment physical; his face went from normal to serious. “The liver and the spleen are swollen,” he informed me. “You have to see a doctor—immediately.”
So, I was on a hospital bed gazing at a CT scan that read “end-stage liver cirrhosis.”
The Free Fall
I tried to find out more about it through Google. Not a good idea. “Cannot be reversed. Death will occur without transplant.” The tremor that took over my hands was so severe I dropped my phone.
My dad, who had come with me for the job, found me in the hallway crying. He didn’t say a lot, just took me under his arm and said, “We’ll find a way.”
But there was no
“figuring it out.” My
liver was failing. No job.
No future. Just waiting to die.
The Long Wait
The docs gave me a transplant as my only shot. But liver transplants are not like ordering takeaway. You wait. And wait. And wait.
I was a “patient in the bed” for several months. Many went in and out. Perhaps a few received their liver transplants. And a few didn’t. To illustrate, one man had the preparation solution he mixed for liver transplantation four times, and each time, the graft was rejected.
My body, however, continued to fail me. The fluid in my belly increased to the point where my skin was torn apart. I ended up in septic shock. At one point, my blood pressure got so low that the nurses thought I was dead.
My dad nevertheless was there with me. He slept on the floor by my bed every night. For nine months.
The Breakthrough
A nurse happened to enter my room one night and said, “Surgery tomorrow. Drink this.”
I didn’t get much sleep that night. The following day they took me to the operating room. Fifteen minutes before noon, I was taken to the operating room; eight hours and a half later, I got my new liver.
The process of recovery was a disaster. I can still remember every step of the mission with extreme pain in my chest and abdomen. But it did not matter to me. I was alive.
Starting Over
After a year in rehab, I was given the green light for light work. But my academic career? It had disappeared. Probably, no one will employ a professor that has a medical history like mine.
Then my village decided to help me out by offering me a job: street sweeper.
Yeah. The guy with a Ph.D. was now cleaning the streets from goat crap.
At first, I felt ashamed of myself. Later, something peculiar kicked in—I liked it. The old ladies called me “Professor Sweeper.” The goat herder and I discussed politics. Kids pointed at me and said, “Study hard or you’ll end up like him!” (Jokes on them—I am the happiest I have ever been.)
The Lesson
Once I was convinced that winning was having a high profile career, getting articles published in the top journals, and being known by all. What about now? Success is being able to get up without pain. It’s witnessing my father’s joy when I come back home. It’s the guy at the corner store who tells me, “Hey Doc, fix my phone again?”
I missed a lot. But on the other hand, I got something better – a new life.
To be frank, cleaning the streets with a Ph.D. is quite a unique way to put it.
Moral of the story: You won’t live life as you planned. But the detour can sometimes be the most amazing aspect.
Do you like this story? Pass it on to someone who needs a reminder that it’s never too late to start over.
