As time went on, and my illness only progressed, I asked my family members for help when it came to reconciling my faith with my suffering. My mom and grandparents told me I should just have faith, and feel blessed to still be at home, rather than at the hospital. In a way, it seemed like they were avoiding my questions by telling me to just have faith. But what did having faith even mean? Did it mean just ignoring the bad and being grateful for the good? Did it mean blindly following a belief without any evidence beyond an ancient collection of writings from thousands of years ago? Did having faith mean I had to just be grateful and tender towards God all of the time? If that was the case, then I had no faith to begin with, and what I was going through then only turned me even more bitter and faithless. 

Since I wasn't getting any useful answers from my family, I decided to ask God directly for the reason why He allowed me to get so sick. But, the only answer I got from God was complete silence. I was hit with the crushing realization that I was entirely alone in this battle against an unpredictable and increasingly worsening illness. I came to the conclusion that there was no God. There was no afterlife. There was no hope. What happened that night in the ER was just a freak incident. Freak incidents were common. Maybe not nearly as common as the status quo. But they were still common. Scientifically speaking, humans still haven't figured out shit, so there was a lot of room for "miracles" to happen. But, one day, maybe far off in the future if we didn't blow ourselves up first, we'd eventually find out a material cause for those "miracles", like how we eventually found out what caused lightning thousands of years after Zeus was invented. 

A couple days after my first brush with death, I got some tests done to see if the antibiotics were having any real effect on my infection. When I got test results back several days later, my heart shattered. My infection was only getting worse, even though I was going at it full-force with two very powerful antibiotics. Doctors suspected that my Pseudomonas had finally evolved to be antibiotic-resistant, and they had no other treatments available to counter it. Doctors never gave me a death date, though they hinted at it when they told me the only way I could survive was if I was extra, extra diligent with doing my treatments, exercising, and eating the right food. But they warned me Pseudomonas was a very aggressive flesh-eating disease, and it would soon cause me much bigger problems, regardless of what I did. I might be able to hold it back if I tried, but I could never stop it. 

They ended up referring me to an ear, nose, and throat doctor to begin discussing sinus surgery, which would involve drilling holes in my sinuses to provide drainage holes directly through my nostrils, so the snot didn't have to fight gravity to exit my sinuses. Doctors hoped that the sinus surgery would slow down the progression of the remaining infection by relieving some of the pressure and limiting the breeding ground for Pseudomonas to occupy.

X-rays revealed that both of my upper and lower sinuses were completely full of mucus, which would only help Pseudomonas with its ultimate goal of eating through my skull and infecting my brain. Pseudomonas-caused-meningitis was a very serious, and often deadly condition. It could kill me, or at the very least, cause me to suffer even more permanent disabilities within a few hours of infecting my brain. And there wasn't anything I could do about it. If Pseudomonas made its way into my brain, my brain would swell up, and I'd become an unconscious vegetable, unable to interact with or even process the world around me. 

After that appointment, I went home and locked myself in my bedroom. I paced around the room and cursed God over and over again. He was not there for me then, and I was convinced He was never there for me at all to begin with. What I was going through was solid proof that there was no God, and even if there was, it certainly was not the God the bible described. This God was absolutely sadistic in nature. He toyed with the world like a cat played with a mouse. He tormented people, let them go for awhile, and then pounced onto them again, until He got tired of them, and finally put them out of their misery. The God I was experiencing was not a God of love or mercy. I was not being shown any mercy at that point. My fate was sealed. I didn't have a lot of time left to live, and I'd be too sick to enjoy anything as my time came to a horrendous end. 

My family would have to watch me as I slowly, yet rapidly at the same time, lost my health. I'd get my sinus surgery, which would take me a few weeks to fully recover from. Pseudomonas would still be eating its way through my skull, even without much mucus to thrive in, which would hurt worse and worse as it got closer and closer to infecting my brain. It was almost certain that Pseudomonas would eventually infect my lungs through post-nasal drip, which would then progress much faster through the soft tissues in my lungs. I'd end up in the hospital once I lost my ability to breathe on my own, and then I'd lose my voice when doctors would eventually be forced to cut a hole in my throat and insert an artificial trachea, which would be connected to a ventilator. I'd lose my ability to eat, and would have to live off of protein pumped into me through a G-tube. And, once Pseudomonas breached my cranium, my brain would swell up, and I'd become an unconscious vegetable. Then my parents would have to be the ones to turn off the machines keeping me alive, assuming Pseudomonas didn't kill me first.

It would be a terrible end to my short life. It would be clear on that dreadful day, that I'd suffered for nothing, and that there was no God. Surely, my family could not justify God's existence then. No being Who is described as being all-powerful, all-loving, and all-knowing, could allow such a thing to happen to anyone. Yet, it seemed like God was allowing me to go down that well-beaten road. I was not a very unique case. Lots of people needlessly suffered everyday. If there was a God, He was more likely to be Satan than Yahweh. 

While I lost all hope and faith, and fell deep into a black hole I was certain I'd never escape from, my family kept theirs. My grandma Debbie caught wind of an experimental medication that was being tested on anyone who was willing to sign a waiver to participate. This medication, called a phage virus, was actually not very new at all, in historical terms. It was the world's first "antibiotic" before there were any antibiotics, and it was completely natural. Phage viruses are just that: viruses. For every bacterial infection, there was a virus that had the ability to target that infection, hijack it, and destroy it. Every time a new kind of bacteria evolved, a countering phage virus would also appear to destroy that new bacteria. Which, theoretically speaking, meant for every new breed of Pseudomonas that evolved from older species, there was a phage virus out there that could destroy it. 

My grandma Debbie quickly sent the link to the study to my mom, who then got in contact with the doctors and scientists running the trial, and begged them to let us participate. They were all the way out in Portland, Oregon, which meant we'd have to embark on quite the trip. We'd fly into Seattle to drop off my little brother with our distant relatives, and then drive the 3.5 hours it took to get from Seattle, Washington, to Portland, Oregon soon after. But, as long as we were willing to do that, they were willing to let me into the trials. 

When my mom excitedly announced this new "miracle medicine" to me, I scowled. To me, it sounded like bullshit. My mom presented it the same way she once presented essential oils and supplements to me, when her anti-vax friends preyed on her desperation and tried to sell her what was basically snake oil. Essential oils were really only good for making things smell like plants and flowers, and irritating my sinuses to encourage snot to come out. Buffalo hot wings basically had the same medicinal effect on me as essential oils, so I preferred to eat hot wings rather than drip essential oils into my sinuses whenever they got clogged up. 

My mom told me to research it, and reassured me it wasn't woo-woo bullshit, like she always said about essential oils and supplements. I shrugged my shoulders and told her I'd look into it, but warned her to not get her hopes up so high. I was willing to bet my life that those phage viruses would end up in the same category as essential oils. Maybe they had some sort of medicinal effect, but it probably wouldn't be aggressive enough to save me from death.  

For two days straight, I researched these phage viruses, hoping to find something to discredit them and convince my mom to cancel our plane tickets. Not only was I skeptical of those phages, but I was scared of flying, especially since I was so sick and miserable. At the same time, if I ultimately decided to fly out to Seattle, I told myself I'd sit by a window directly behind an engine, hope that engine exploded mid-air, and the shrapnel from that engine took me out of my misery. I knew that was extremely unlikely, but so was being born with Pulmonary Atresia and Cystic Fibrosis. I seemed to win every unfortunate lottery possible. I wasn't exactly suicidal, but if I was going to die so soon, I wanted to go out instantly and in style! 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I safely arrived in Seattle one week later, after I was satisfied with what I'd researched online about phage viruses. Those phage viruses weren't snake oil after all. Many European and former USSR countries endorsed phage virus therapy as an acceptable and effective treatment against antibiotic-resistant bacteria. I found a lot of documentaries online about the effectiveness of phage therapy. My mom found a book that detailed a few people's experiences with phage therapy. And my grandpa Lyle somehow got a Navy captain on the phone, because the United States stored the bulk of the country's supply of phage viruses on Navy ships, and they talked about phage therapy for almost two hours. And better yet, no Secret Service agents came knocking on my grandpa's door. 

My mom's boyfriend at the time, Matthew, accompanied us on our trip. He thought it was cool that I was going to use military-approved biological warfare to hopefully kick Pseudomonas's ass! He jokingly suggested I ought to walk into the doctors' office in Portland wearing a military helmet. It would complement my camo hoodie and my cowboy boots very well! I smirked at his joke, but my humor only lasted a second. The situation I was in was way too serious to joke about at the moment. I still didn't have a lot of faith or hope in those phages, or the God that created them. I was willing to try the phages, and give God another chance if they showed promising signs. But, for the most part, I was almost certain I'd be six feet underground in no more than several years. 

Long story short, we drove to Portland, I interrogated the doctors and scientists to make sure they weren't full of shit, and then got a box of phages sent to my house. My mom wanted to take them on the plane with us, but both Matthew and I convinced her that was a preposterous idea! The vials of phages were labeled in Georgian, not English! If TSA inspected those things, we'd get into trouble that only the Navy captain my grandpa talked to could get us out of. I wasn't about to get myself incarcerated by the United States government for possession of mysterious Russian liquids. I was already drowning in Shit Creek!

On the flight back home, I was still secretly hoping the plane engine I was sitting directly behind would explode, so all chances of me dying slowly and painfully several years down the line would be reduced to zero. But, I was spared yet again, and found myself crawling into the safety and comfort of my own bed at home, where I stayed for almost the entire week as the phages truly kicked Pseudomonas's ass for me!

But the treatment wasn't entirely risk-free, or side-effect free. There was always a possibility that I could inhale a corrupted phage, which could cause me bigger problems. But, it was a risk I was willing to take. I was already dying. The worst thing a phage could do to me was kill me sooner. 

Also, in order to start the phage virus treatments, I had to stop taking all of my antibiotics for a full five days, which I did while I was in Oregon and Washington. By then, I'd been taking Ciprofloxacin (also known as Cipro) and Tobramycin (also known as Tobi) for a month straight, which I later learned permanently damaged me. Cipro, aside from presenting me with the usual side-effects of oral antibiotics, such as digestive issues and nausea, was also very detrimental to my joints. Until then, I never had a problem with joint pain or discomfort, but after taking Cipro for a month, my knees would give me trouble ahead of every weather front, and writer's cramp set in much sooner than before, which I found out when I picked up a pencil and attempted to work on some assignments for my creative writing class.  

I could barely get through two paragraphs without having to pause and massage my right hand as it tensed up in a Charleyhorse, when before I could plow through entire essays without stopping.When I returned to school, my creative writing teacher let me do all of my assignments online so I could keep up with everyone else. My toes would also get stiff at night, and I'd have to crack them back to life every morning so I didn't walk like I had nails in my feet.

Tobi also had some serious long-term side effects, though they weren't as severe as the joint problems Cipro left me. I noticed that I didn't hear as well as I did before I started Tobi. Turns out, Tobi was notorious for causing permanent hearing-loss. Some people have required hearing aids after taking Tobi for years. That was terrifying. Everything was terrifying actually. My Pseudomonas infection was aging me faster than I ever thought was possible. I was well on my way to losing my ability to walk, hear, and actually just exist, considering Pseudomonas was inching towards my brain and would eventually infect it. 

When my doctors revealed that side-effect to me, only after I endured a month of Cipro and started having joint problems, I was frothing at the mouth as I half-interrogated, half-ranted to them about how horrendous so many "treatments" for my illnesses were. I got even more pissed off when they told me I should've asked them to test the antibiotics against my throat cultures in petri-dishes before they prescribed me anything. They never once told me that was an option. How I didn't end up on top of one of my doctors with my hands around their throat remains a mystery to me. Maybe there was a God after all, preventing me from committing first-degree murder at the hospital a week before Christmas.