When I was almost seven, I learned what it meant to be at the bottom of the well. Not because I was there, but because Baby Jessica was.
She was only 18 months old when she fell into her aunt’s backyard well, and the whole world stopped. I remember sitting cross-legged on our threadbare carpet, eyes glued to the TV, close enough to touch the screen—and I probably did. Like millions of others, I watched the workers strategize, whispering along as they sang Winnie the Pooh down the shaft. I held my breath with every update.
When they finally pulled her out, I felt relief, joy… and exhaustion. I realized later I’d been so consumed with the situation I forgot the world around me. I forgot to breathe. Even now, when I think of that moment, my shoulders tense. My heart races. But what sticks with me most is the release—the weight that lifted when she was safe.
That memory came rushing back to me this year, because once again, I found myself at the bottom of the well.
The Descent
The first time I passed out, we laughed it off. I wasn’t drinking that night (a surprise in itself), but fainting in a bar just got chalked up as another “Alecia story.”
The second time—middle of the night, tripping over clothes on the floor—we called it clumsy, not serious.
But the cracks were showing. Pressure at the base of my skull that wouldn’t go away. Waking up one morning unable to move my wrists. My doctor brushed it off, told me we’d talk in three weeks. Fine, I thought. If he’s not worried, I won’t be either.
I had my golf league debut. My son’s graduation party. The pool was open. Summer was waiting.
Turns out, summer had other plans.
When the Body Says No
The Thursday before graduation, my best friend picked me up for lunch before golf. She knew something was wrong the second she saw me. I didn’t drink, didn’t eat, couldn’t focus. The world was closing in again. She skipped golf, drove me home.
Two hours later, I woke up—and couldn’t move.
That was the crack in the dam. My body had decided for me: this wasn’t drama, this was a reckoning.
The next six weeks were brutal. I moaned, cried, yelled, restless and anxious in the guest room. My husband carried me to the bathroom. I over-medicated, desperate for relief. Pain level 9/10. I told myself I’d rather give birth to another 10-pound baby than keep feeling like this.
My first ER trip ruled out Lyme and lupus. Found a heart murmur and anemia. “Follow up with your doctor,” they said. My primary care kept telling me to wait.
The day before graduation, I fainted again. This time, my family said enough was enough.
Code Called
I passed out in the ER triage room. Ever heard a code call? It’s terrifying when it’s for you. The good news is, I don’t remember it—I was unconscious. My blood pressure had dropped to 60/40. I was crashing fast. The team responded. That got me admitted.
Luckily, my sister was strong enough not to faint too. Somebody had to stay upright.
And yes—we decided I needed a plan other than my husband slapping me to “bring me back to reality.”
The Long Road of Tests
From there, the digging began.
- CT scans of brain, neck, chest
- PET scan to look for hidden cancer
- EEG to check for seizures
- Heart monitoring
- Biopsies of my thyroid and lung
- Endless labs—iron, cortisol, inflammation markers, autoimmunity panels
Each test felt like another shovel of dirt being moved, another angle of rescue being debated. Only this time, the trapped person was me.
And each result came with waiting. More fear. More strategizing. More living at the bottom of the well.
The Release
Finally, the picture formed. Not cancer. Not autoimmune disease. Not a hidden monster.
Just me.
There are still some small things to sort out—anemia, thyroid nodules, and a pesky lung nodule that will be followed closely. And yes, I’ll be finding a new primary care doctor.
But the biggest answer came from that odd little marker we stumbled on ourselves: Parvovirus B19. Turns out, it really can do all this to you—pain, fainting, anemia, inflammation, exhaustion. And there’s no fix. Just time. Up to 12 months of time.
And oddly, knowing that lifted the weight. Because finally, there was a reason. A path forward.
The Next Chapter
And now—surprisingly—even with some level of pain and significant exhaustion, I feel almost weightless. There’s a real happiness in my heart again, not a forced one. I’m productive. I’m learning when to pause, when to breathe, when to rest.
Most of all, I’ve realized I’m not alone in this. So many people have been cheering me on, carrying me with their care, their anticipation, even their whispered Winnie the Pooh moments that kept me sane when the pain threatened to swallow me whole.
Like Baby Jessica, I’ve been pulled back into the light.
So my heels are back on, my lipstick is loaded, and I’m ready for the next chapter.
We Conquer as One 