It Could Be Worse

I had the perfect vision for what my post-grad trip to Europe would look like. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t heavily influenced by the endless stream of curated content I saw on my Instagram feed leading up to it. Beautiful girls, laughing together, sipping fancy sparkling cocktails out of crystal glasses. Insert a scenic summer backdrop and you’ve got yourself a swoon-worthy post guaranteed to garner a plethora of likes.

I desperately wanted to be one of those girls. I thought I deserved it, I mean, rightfully so. The years leading up to my trip had been anything but easy. Covid canceled my original plan to study abroad in Rome; I, like so many other young adults I know, had lost a number of opportunities and experiences at its expense. I tried to go the following summer, and the fall after that, but each time, the program I would apply to canceled their funding due to “various health and safety concerns.”

Okay, I would tell myself. You didn’t go this time, but you will get there eventually, and when you do go it's going to be even more worth the wait.

You would probably be correct in judging from the title of this story that that didn't turn out to be true.

Despite my best efforts, I didn’t study abroad. But something you should know about me is that I am a very determined person. I work hard and I don’t give up easily. I was going to get to Europe even if it broke me (that’ll be funny later).

So two of my closest college friends and I made a commitment: we would embark on a grand European adventure after graduation. We planned to travel to a number of countries and see as many noteworthy sites as possible, all in the span of a month. Being that we were still college students, our big dreams were constrained by tight budgets.

Everywhere we arranged to stay was either a cheap AirBnB or a local youth hostel. Important to note: when it’s advertised online as a “short train ride away from major attractions,” what they really mean is that it’s actually about a mile walk to the train station, a 45-minute journey complete with frequent stopping, and a lack of notice that the train doesn’t run past 9pm or on the weekends.

“It could be worse,” my friend Eva would tell me when I complained. “We could not have service and get stuck at some random train stop outside of the city and have no idea of where we are.” What she wasn’t remembering was that exact situation happened to us a couple nights prior.

Only Clara had splurged on cellular coverage while abroad. Her phone died earlier in the day while taking pictures and we naively decided to stay in Paris to watch the Eiffel Tower light up after dark, not knowing the Metro promptly ended at 9pm.

Without service, we wandered around the city for what felt like hours. We looked for city maps, asked strangers for directions (keep in mind Parisians aren’t particularly fond of Americans and none of us spoke French), and tried to connect to distant restaurant wifi without having to go inside and pay for food. I was secretly praying that a nice wealthy stranger would take pity on us and offer us a ride home in their private car.

“Where do you live,” they would ask politely. “Oh, you know, about a 45-minute train ride outside of the city, and then about a mile further than the last station. “No problem at all,” they would shockingly exclaim, while we sat in the backseat, making use of their many USB cords and refreshing air conditioning. Despite my best wishes, that did not end up happening.

We did manage to get on an A-line train that we discovered continued to run after dark, but it was going the opposite direction of where we needed to go. Realizing this was very wrong after a number of stops, we got off feeling even more lost than when we started. It took about an hour longer to locate a bus that would take us to a shuttle that would take us to a stop that was remotely walkable to our AirBnB. We got in around 3am, which I might add was also a struggle since the door was jammed and our key decided not to work. I collapsed onto the miniature-sized twin bed on top of the makeshift “loft” nailed into the ceiling. I would guess it was created to make the space feel bigger. It did not feel bigger. It felt the size that it was, which was about 500 square feet.

“It could be worse,” Clara said wearingly. “We could have spent the night on a park bench.” I chose not to respond to that comment.

Getting around wasn’t easy, but we always made the most of our days exploring. All of the traveling, mixed with late nights (prompted by a lack of directional insight), and early morning starts wreaked havoc on my immune system.  About a week and a half into our trip, I got very sick while in Munich, Germany. With a horrendous sore throat, fever and cough, I did my best to muster a smile and continue on with our sightseeing. At about day three, I decided I had had enough exploring.

It could be worse, I thought to myself.  I considered the last text my brother sent in our family group chat. He had mysteriously contracted a severe case of poison ivy, which required an IV drip and steroids at urgent care. Okay, I’m not sick enough to go to urgent care. I guess that’s good.

I woke up the next morning with the worst case of pink eye I have ever seen. Not only did my crusted eye need to be pried open with notable force, but once unsealed, a long train of yellow goop streamed down my cheek in the mixed-gender hostel bathroom.

Feeling very sorry for me, my friends offered many words of encouragement. “It could be worse, you could have it in both eyes!” Well, something to note about pink eye is that it is extremely contagious. I ended up getting it in the other eye about a day later. When this happened, Eva loaned me her sunglasses to use “as long as I needed,” which was code for: I can’t look at your grotesque face anymore and I think it’s cruel to continue subjecting others to it.

When the double pink eye and virus subsided, I gained a newfound sense of life. No longer weighed down by congestion, I was ready to explore for the rest of our time in Spain. We arrived in Madrid the next day. Having a wonderful experience walking around the city and visiting a variety of local markets, I felt like I was turning a new corner. I was not.

I awoke the next morning to a gut-wrenching email from the HR manager at a job I was set to start in Denver, upon returning home. Having just driven for two days from California, opening a storage locker and signing a three-month sublease, I was praying the “series of unfortunate financial setbacks” she urgently needed to speak with me about would have no bearing on my employment. I really don’t know where all of my optimism comes from.

Because of the time difference, I waited for what felt like an eternity to get on a Zoom call with her and have my worst fears confirmed. The company had lost two major clients in the last two weeks and didn’t have the funding to bring me on in August, like they originally planned. So much for the “Happy Graduation” card everyone in the office had signed for me three weeks prior as a sort of “welcome to the family” message (their words, not mine).

While she offered condolences and words of encouragement, I couldn’t think of anything to say. All of the effort I had made to get this job while being a full-time student, working two jobs and playing a competitive club sport, felt useless. What has all of this been for, I questioned, if not to get a great job out of college and have a stable and secure plan? I wanted to cry, and I did, to my mother shortly after the Zoom call ended.

“This is just a temporary setback,” she lovingly expressed. “There’s absolutely no rush in finding a job. When you come back from Europe, you’ll have plenty of time to find something you love. You’re a smart, accomplished, determined person. I just know something better will come out of this.” And it would eventually, but that’s for another story.

My mother has a gift for reassuring me in times of distress, as I’m sure many mothers do. But I couldn’t look past the news I had just learned. My friends offered other words of encouragement. “I feel like this is supposed to happen,” Clara said. “You’re going to have so much time now to explore Denver without having to get to work right away.”

I did feel extremely fortunate to be in the position I was. Not being employed, I didn’t have to worry about paying my bills. My parents reiterated that they would cover my rent while I looked for another job in the city. It could definitely be worse. I was lucky, I thought to myself. Well, being lucky isn’t really how I would describe the months to come.

On our last day in Portugal, the day before I was set to fly out to Rome to meet my mother and grandmother on the long-awaited (and might I add highly anticipated) stretch of the trip we had been planning for months, I slipped walking towards the water on an algae-lined shale beach and broke my elbow—although I didn’t know it yet. Having never broken a bone, I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like, but I knew something was definitely wrong.

I called my mother shortly after, hoping to catch her before her plane left for Italy. She promptly picked up the phone, exclaiming, What’s wrong – a likely result of my only previously contacting her with bad news. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I think I might have injured my arm, but I can’t tell whether or not it’s broken. I’m definitely in a lot of pain.”

We decided that I should wait until tomorrow to go see a doctor, when she could come to the hospital with me and get it looked at in Rome. In the meantime, she advised me to take Advil, begin icing it to reduce the swelling and find some kind of wrap to keep it in place. Being that we were in Lisbon, there weren’t many medical grade slings readily available. Eva bought me a pashmina that I proceeded to wrap my arm in and use as a makeshift one until I could find something better.

Trying to ignore my pressing worries and the rapid swelling taking place under my scarf, I chose to continue on with the rest of my last day with my friends. A couple laughs and glasses of Sangria later, I laid in my non-air conditioned, 103-degree hostel bunkbed restless, yet unable to move. I don’t particularly believe in hell, but my guess is it would be something similar to this.

We woke up at 4am the next morning to get to the airport. My flight wasn’t until later, but I wanted to get some help lifting my 50lb hiking bag through the terminal. Once arriving, my friends rushed to their gate while I waited by the baggage drop off. My flight didn’t take off for another three hours and the baggage check was deserted until further notice. I waited by an airport cafe, praying I would be taken out of this misery. 

An airport attendant finally opened the baggage check and I one-handedly thrusted my bag over the counter. “Looks like you’ve had a rough go,” the attendant commented. Yeah, you could say that.

I expected to be greeted by a fear-stricken and emotionally drained mother, but when I got to the hotel lobby in Rome, she was calm and reassuring. “It’s going to be ok,” she kept saying. “You’re okay now. We’re going to take care of you.” I just about collapsed into her arms.

With a brief glance at the state of my condition, my grandmother and mother agreed I needed to be seen right away. We rushed in a taxi to the nearest hospital, which roughly resembled the makeup of an abandoned church. A woman with a stern face and a strong Italian accent told me to wait in the side room until I was called back for an X-ray. I waited anxiously with my mother and the peculiar onslaught of Italian residents who also needed to be seen urgently on a Monday afternoon.

They told me they would need several pictures of my arm to get a clear understanding of what was going on internally, but one picture proved to be more than enough. “I think you will need surgery,” the Italian male nurse said to me, examining the X-ray. “No, she definitely will,” the other nurse chimed in from the background. Pain quickly morphed into panic as I envisioned my arm being opened on one of the many dirty operating tables I was surrounded by. 

“You have a fractured and dislocated elbow,” the orthopedist voiced. “You can have your surgery here or at home in The States, but you will need to have it within the next five days. I would recommend you have it there.”

The rest of the day was filled with back and forth phone calls with my father, who was placed on hold with United for several hours while he worked to arrange a flight home for all three of us. He also searched for an orthopedic surgeon who could do the surgery on a last-minute notice. Neither task proved to be easy.

I felt burdened with immense guilt and sadness. I was the reason we all had to cancel the trip my grandmother had been planning and then re-planning for months. The Italian experience I had dreamed of for so long was once again out of reach. I didn’t know when I’d back, but it sure as hell wasn’t anytime soon.

“I’m just glad that you’re okay,” my grandmother lovingly expressed. She could have been angry about the cancellation of her well-structured trip or hindered by the forthcoming battle with the trip insurance company, but she wasn’t. She was caring and comforting. “It could’ve been worse. We’ve been through worse,” she said. “I’m just thanking God that you didn’t hit your head.”

Those words hung in my mind the entire flight back. My brain was buzzing with what would come in the next several days. “Just take it one step at a time,” my mother kept telling me. “Let’s just think about getting home today and we’ll think about the surgery tomorrow.”

A couple days later, I had my surgery. Through a friend of his, my father found an excellent orthopedic surgeon who was highly rated and able to do the surgery on short notice. I had a metal plate put in, complete with six screws to hold my elbow in place while it grew back together. “Ninety-five percent of the time, we never even have to take it out,” the surgeon assured me. “You won’t even feel that it’s there.”

The surgery was successful and I was slowly gaining movement and motion back in my arm with the help of physical therapy. I reached out to the hiring managers of a job I originally wanted back in the spring, but was placed on hold at the time. They ended up offering me a full-time position starting in September. It was based in Austin, but the CEO told me I could be remote for as long as I needed. Finally, I thought, I’m turning a corner.

As the wound continued to heal, a tiny spot of the scar remained open. I was told it was nothing to worry about, that it was the result of a suture abscess and that it would scab over eventually like the rest of my arm did. It did not scab over. It was restitched and it reopened on its own. I kept it clean and bandaged. It remained open.

“Well, this is the worst case scenario,” the orthopedic surgeon told me when I went back in for an appointment. “We’re going to have to remove the plate and screws once your bone has healed, which will likely be in about 3 weeks.” 

Apparently, if you develop a suture abscess, it can lead to bacteria on the plate. Unlike your body, the metal does not have an immune system, so it will continue to live and fester on the plate, causing future problems. If you remember from before, this only happens five percent of the time. I was apparently in that five percent.

Another surgery? Was God trying to punish me? The surgeon told me I had done everything right, that I was simply just unlucky. Having recovered from the illness and from the job loss, why was I once again faced with another setback to derail my plans on beginning my independent life. 

Crushed and confused, I sobbed on the hour-ride home from the doctor's appointment. I couldn’t do this, not again. It was on this day that my father offered me some much-needed words of advice.

“I know this period has been a struggle for you,” he said to me. “But I want you to know that this really isn’t that big of a deal. You have your whole life to work and plan for.  In the grand scheme of things, this is but a small blip in the course of your existence.”

His advice struck an internal cord of hope I didn’t realize I still had buried deep down. My life will be filled with ups and downs, wins and losses, trials and tribulations. In comparison to the larger picture, this was survivable and I would get through it.

I’m going to hold onto this perspective as I begin (hopefully soon) my entry into adulthood. Placed in my mental toolbox for battling challenging times, I’ll bring it out as yet another resource in dealing with distress. It will keep me grounded and calm when the light at the end of the tunnel seems faint.

If there’s anything I can offer from the past couple of months from my life it is two-fold: firstly, never send a postcard home if there is even the slightest chance you will be the one injured and ready to receive it. Secondly, always value perspective. Things can probably, likely, most definitely get worse. But they’re not right now, at this present moment, and that is definitely something. 

Claire is a recent graduate of Santa Clara University with a passion for journalism and writing, as well as studying the integrations between research and historical analysis. Claire is based in Austin, TX, where she works for a start-up called StoryFit -- a software company providing solutions for the entertainment industry through collaborative storytelling.