A week ago, I was deathly ill. At least that’s how it felt. I was feverish, my throat ached, and my body was weak from fighting the disease. My blankets were wrapped around me, trapping my limbs like a fuzzy straight jacket. In those moments, when I was most vulnerable, a realization struck me: I never appreciate how good it was to be healthy until I got sick.

This wasn’t the first time I’ve had these thoughts. I had similar ideas when I was lying next to the toilet bowl, stomach cramping after a bout of vomiting. Or when I was in bed with my head pressed tight against my pillow, praying to God that my headache would disappear when I woke up the next morning. One of the best feelings in the world was when I opened my eyes, and the pain was gone. All I could sense was numbness and relief.

Shortly after those blissful minutes, I would go back to my usual routine, forgetting all about the awful experience I went through. While I blowed my nose and coughed up a lung, I pondered why it was so easy to forget. Did everyone act that way? Carry on like nothing happened? I assumed some people become more cautious after getting ill. Maybe they avoid visits with sick friends or family. Perhaps they would distance themselves from coughing strangers, a reaction developed during the height of Covid-19. I too, did these things. However beyond these basic protections, I was careless with my health. I would wave away tests or scans my doctors said I should get, because I thought my body was invincible. In my mind, nothing could go wrong.

When I was a child, I went through years of rotating sicknesses. Gastrointestinal flu, throat infections, sinus infections, bronchitis, and even a severe case of pneumonia, which put me out of school for a few weeks. Every time I bounced back, I wiped the event from my mind and moved forward. Last week, as I was recovering from a case of Strep Throat (yikes), I evaluated how lucky I’ve been with my health. I had never broken a bone, needed surgery, or suffered from any chronic conditions, besides eczema, which was under control. My body was strong enough to fight off infections and diseases without too much trouble, unlike my dad, who suffered from immunocompromising conditions. His risk of hospitalization was higher compared to mine.

My recent bout of sickness was a result of me hanging out with a friend who had just gotten over a “cold.” It turned out to be Strep, and I brought it home to my family. My dad fell ill after me and had a sore throat that lasted days. Worse, when my doctor diagnosed me, I found out how dangerous Strep was for older patients. I ran home to tell my dad so he could make an appointment to get antibiotics. Afterward, I felt guilty for not taking my dad’s and my own health seriously. All I could think about was my dad in the hospital or worse.

The day I visited my doctor was when I took matters into my own hands. From then on, I took every precaution. Recently, I went to my dermatologist for an annual skin exam. She found a mole she didn’t like and took a sample to send to a lab. I could have refused the test, as my insurance didn’t cover it, and it was not likely that I had skin cancer at my age. However, for my own peace of mind and that of my loved ones, I consented to the biopsy.

When I got home that day, I told my family what had happened. They were glad I got the examination because it showed how much I cared about my body. For me, the dermatologist visit was another step on the road to a long life. I wasn’t taking any more chances.