"When you spend your whole life as a normal kid, you never expect to wake up one day and be sick" - Aubrie's story grappeling with the unexpected

When I was twelve years old, I began experiencing severe stomach pain and started throwing up everything I ate or drank. I couldn’t sleep, and the pain was constant. One day it became so unbearable that I finally convinced my parents to take me to the emergency room. The doctors believed it was my appendix and scheduled me for an appendectomy the next day. I hoped the surgery would finally make me feel better.

The surgery itself went well. My appendix was removed, but it wasn’t inflamed, and nothing appeared to be wrong. When I woke up, I was in excruciating pain—crying and screaming because it was so intense. The doctors tried everything they could, but nothing helped. Eventually, they gave me a shot meant to knock me out for six to eight hours, but even that didn’t work, and I continued crying in pain. There wasn’t much else they could do, so I was sent back to my room to wait and hope the pain would ease. By the next morning, I felt somewhat better and believed my recovery was finally beginning.

For a while, things settled down. I returned to living a normal life—playing sports, going to school, and spending time with friends. Everything seemed to be going well until a few years later. When I was fifteen, the same symptoms returned, only much worse. I could no longer take care of myself. My body felt like it was shutting down. I was pale, hadn’t eaten in days, and couldn’t keep anything down, not even water. I was vomiting multiple times a day—sometimes it was only acid, and other times there was blood.

Severely dehydrated, I ended up back in the emergency room and was admitted to the pediatric ward after spending a night in the ER with no answers. I was moved upstairs to my own room, relieved to finally be somewhere quieter where I could rest and hopefully get help. The nights were so long that the days blurred together, and I completely lost track of time. What felt like one week quickly turned into forty-one days.

Sometimes I felt embarrassed being the oldest kid on the ward, but other times it felt meaningful—knowing younger kids looked up to me and felt less scared because I was there. I became close with my nurses, who did everything they could to make me comfortable. I struggled with eating, drinking, swallowing pills, and any medication I needed had to be given through my IV. I relied heavily on morphine just to make the pain bearable—it never fully took it away.

During the first few weeks, I had an amazing team of doctors who truly worked with me. They listened, ordered tests, and helped me find small things that made a difference. It genuinely felt like they wanted to help—until their shifts ended. When a new doctor took over, everything changed, and I encountered the worst doctor I have ever had.

He refused to listen to me or my needs. He believed I was faking my illness and made me feel like I was crazy. He told me my symptoms were all in my head and that I needed therapy. Against the recommendations of other doctors, he sent me home, insisting there was nothing they could do. Once I was home, I continued to struggle more and more without the help I truly needed. Three days later, I ended up back in the emergency room, but he refused to come see me, again stating that I needed to go home and that there was nothing medically wrong.

After another shift change, I returned to the ER and was immediately admitted back to the pediatric ward. This time, a PICC line was placed to help keep my nutrients stable. Doctors continued running every test possible, desperately trying to figure out what was wrong with me. A few weeks later, I encountered yet another doctor who didn’t believe my situation and decided to remove my PICC line. I was then forced to meet with a psychiatrist after concerns were raised about a possible eating disorder.

I felt deeply hurt, as if no one believed me. I began taking my frustration out on my parents, arguing with them even though they were trying their best to help. The psychiatrist ultimately determined that I was safe and not a risk to myself or others. While this felt like a small step toward proving that I wasn’t “crazy,” it still did nothing to help uncover what was actually wrong with me.

Eventually, one doctor suggested trying a feeding tube. It began to help—I wasn’t throwing up as often, and I was finally able to keep nutrients down. We started to see improvements in my overall health, though the pain never went away. After several months, I was stable enough to be sent home, but I was discharged with the feeding tube still in place. I was still in pain, but after being dismissed by doctors so many times, I became exhausted and frustrated. I felt like I had given up.

I was told not to come back to the hospital, that there was nothing more they could do. It felt as though my cries for help were ignored, and that was incredibly discouraging. After throwing up my feeding tube several times and returning to the ER, it was eventually removed, and once again I was sent home with no answers.

Finally, I was placed on a waiting list to be seen at BC Children’s Hospital in Vancouver. For the first time in a long while, I felt heard. The team there helped me begin to feel like myself again. I started smiling more, attending school more regularly, learning how to manage flare-ups, and taking medication that actually began to help. The pain never fully went away, and it never will, but I learned how to work through it each day.

I still struggle. I still throw up and deal with dehydration and difficulty eating, but now we are managing those challenges. At fifteen, I had no hope and truly believed I was going to die. Now, it is January 10th, 2026, and I am about to turn eighteen. I have learned that hard days will always exist, but it is how you face them that carries you forward. I still sometimes need to go to the emergency room, but now there is hope—because I finally have a team of doctors who are working hard to understand what is wrong with me.

What I want everyone to understand from my story is that you aren’t defined by a diagnosis and getting a diagnosis is different for everyone. You just need to be patient and remember you aren’t crazy, your symptoms are real. And someone will forever believe in you! It takes time but be strong. If I can I know you can too :)

Clinical definitions will never capture the full weight of living with these conditions.

But we can.

Chronically Me.