Like a lot of people, I’ve dealt with health issues my whole life. I have cystic fibrosis, which comes with a cornucopia of symptoms, like deteriorating ability to breathe, IV antibiotics, collapsed lungs, port-a-caths and, oh right, a double lung transplant.

I’ve done my best to roll with the punches, especially after being given a second chance at life, but then, a few months ago at forty-two, I woke up completely unable to control my hand.

I’m not sure if the fact that my limp hand was completely useless was just so weird, or because I subconsciously knew that whatever was causing it would be bad, but I almost immediately started crying. Which is when my husband (who was trying to convince both of us that my hand was just asleep) realized the situation was serious.

After going to the local (small, very well-run) ER, and a quick CT scan, the doctors confirmed I had a stroke. Actually, two strokes, but luckily one was completely asymptomatic (so it doesn’t count, right?) and my hand was the only symptom of the second one. The small community hospital couldn’t wait to send me over to a bigger one, better equipped to deal with all my complex, lengthy medical history, where my mom met me in the ER. We just looked at each other and asked, “What the fuck?!?”

After numerous MRIs, CT scans, bouts of blood work and new doctors added to my already-full dance card, different specialties had differing opinions about the cause. Neurology was confident it was two normal strokes, while Infectious Disease thought one of the spots looked weird on the MRI and could be an infection. They strongly urged a brain biopsy to determine whether that was the cause. The main problem with that of course is: 1, they weren’t even sure they’d be able to get an actual sample since the area was so small, and 2, I could end up PARALYZED. My father, a doctor who can speak the medical lingo, got the ID folks to admit that I would be treated with the same meds I was already being treated with if that brain biopsy came back positive, so there was no real benefit to digging into my brain. My family started walking around cheering on “Team Neuro” every time I got a step closer to being released, as more of the teams of doctors began to agree that the spots in my brain on the MRI were strokes, even if we didn’t know the exact why of it.

Sometimes we have to live with the not knowing. But if it’s a choice between an unknown and a known, devastating diagnosis, I’ll happily take the run-of-the-mill stroke.

Emily Littlewood lives with her husband, Jason, in Raphine, Va. After getting a degree to teach English, Speech and Theater, she began working in banks. She is currently copy-editing for Streetlight and working back toward her passions.