The monster first appeared in June 2012, on the first day of my summer vacation. I was sitting at my desk when—BAM!—fire surged through my body, my heart pounded violently against my chest, and a thunderclap headache exploded with each beat, as if a sledgehammer was crushing my skull. Terrified, I stumbled to the couch, clutching my head, begging for the agony to stop. But the attacks kept coming, waves of sweat, panic, and pain. Later, my GP told me it was “just anxiety” and prescribed powerful psychotropic drugs that left me suicidal, shaky, and unable to sleep. I felt like I was losing my mind, but even after I stopped the medication, and things calmed slightly, the monster stayed.

Over the years, the attacks became part of my life—pounding heart, body drenched with sweat, violent headaches, breathless fear. My blood pressure and heart rate were so high that one doctor warned me I was on the verge of a stroke and told me even mild exercise could kill me. I was only 35. I was put on multiple medications to control my blood pressure and heart rate, but the other symptoms never stopped—breathing issues, restlessness, sweating through my shirts, insomnia, and crushing fatigue. My job, teaching high school, became a daily performance where I tried to hide my panic and sweat from my students, using multiple fans, wiping my forehead and armpits with a towel constantly.

The monster also crept into my personal life. I felt embarrassed, self-conscious, and isolated. Planning dates meant obsessing over how to hide the sweat and anxiety. Driving on the freeway became a nightmare—I’d grip the wheel tightly, heart racing, imagining the road breaking apart under me, while I begged myself to stay calm. I called my mom just to hear her voice as a lifeline through the panic. My uncle, a doctor, once mentioned a rare disease called pheochromocytoma and told me to ask about it. I did, but my doctor dismissed it. I should have pushed harder. Instead, I spent nearly a decade living like this—believing I was broken, that my mind and body were betraying me, that this was forever.

By late 2021, I hit rock bottom. After a mild case of COVID, food tasted rancid, my weight plummeted to 145 pounds, and I could barely walk more than a few steps. Fevers, exhaustion, breathing problems, and malnutrition consumed me. I was dying but my doctor had no clue what was wrong. After many tests, he simply said, “I cannot help you. You need to go to the ER.”
Within 24 hours, a CT scan revealed the truth: a 7-centimeter pheochromocytoma tumor on my right adrenal gland. I was actually happy. My nightmare had a name. It was rare, but operable. The surgery removed both the tumor and my adrenal gland. Five painful days later, I slowly walked out of the hospital free of medication, free of the monster. For the first time in a decade, I felt like myself again.

After recovering at my parents’ home, I hugged my mom tightly, telling her I loved her and that I couldn’t have survived without her. She had been there through every terrifying moment—calm, present, supportive, strong. Six hours later, I was home, resting on my couch, texting her about tennis, a sport we both loved. She never responded. She was gone. She had made sure I was okay before she left.