I Gaslit Myself About a Lump. It Could Have Been Fatal

It felt like more than strep throat—but perhaps I was just being a baby. I had been on antibiotics for a day, but it still seemed like someone had their hands around my neck, choking me.

I called my husband at work. He was a hospitalist physician with a high load of patients.

"I don't think I can pick up the kids from school," I told him. "I'm scared to drive."

He agreed to leave work to get them. He didn't question my pain tolerance outright, but I imagined what he was thinking: Your sore throat is preventing you from a 15-minute drive? You're making me leave my patients because you have strep?

He dropped the kids off at home, and they had Happy Meals in hand—they'd swung by the McDonald's drive-thru so I wouldn't have to worry about dinner. I rummaged through the freezer, hungry myself, but everything sounded too painful to swallow.

I nuked a box of frozen mac and cheese. I gummed the noodles carefully, but as I ate, I kept fearing I might choke.

The following day, my fever was gone, but I had this annoying, persistent lump in the back of my throat.

It was as if a mass were resting in my windpipe, and no amount of swallowing would make it go away. I gargled with warm salt water and took a hot shower to open my airways with steam.

The day passed, and it was time for school pickup. I wasn't going to make my husband leave work again to do it. As I drove, I realized how bad I still felt. How dizzy. I hope I don't wreck on the way home, I thought as I drove the short commute very carefully.

That night, I couldn't lay back in bed without feeling like I was suffocating. I propped up pillows and tried to sleep upright. I instinctively grabbed at my throat, crying out in frustration and exhaustion.

"This is not normal," my husband said. "You need to go to the ER."

I knew he was right—but I feared the doctors would tell me I was making a big deal out of nothing at all. I gaslit myself because I feared being shamed in a medical setting.

But finally, I relented and drove to the ER.

"I'm being treated for strep," I explained to a nurse, "but it feels like someone is choking me. I know that sounds a bit ridiculous," I added to save face.

During a CT scan, I closed my eyes and held my breath on command. I hope they find something wrong, and I don't end up looking silly, I thought to myself.

And sure enough, they did: There was a cyst closing off my windpipe. Epiglottitis.

"Very rare," the ear, nose, and throat specialist said as he rushed in with my diagnosis and told me to prepare for emergency surgery and intubation.

I googled the diagnosis and learned it was the cause of George Washington's death. There was a 90-95 percent survival rate.

Before surgery, a door opened and in walked my husband with our two sons. They wore matching rainbow coats and leaned in to kiss me on my cheek. They looked tired and confused.

"I love you, Mama," they both said. Mama. Not mom. They were still young enough for that. I felt desperate about not wanting to leave them.

Surgery was successful—my cyst was a fluke, but it would need to be watched. I had tonsil tissue on my epiglottis, and something similar could form again.

Even though I did not have a history of a low pain tolerance or of hypochondria, my desire to be agreeable had overtaken my ability to care for my own health. I'd internalized a phenomenon that is prevalent in medicine, and I gaslit myself before someone could do it to me.

And though recovery from surgery and intubation took time, I now see the experience as a gift and a clear reminder about the importance of listening to my own body, even when I fear it may inconvenience others.

Anna Rollins's forthcoming memoir Famished (Eerdmans, 2025) discusses the importance of women listening to their own bodies. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Slate, Salon, Electric Literature, and other outlets. She directs the writing center at Marshall University. Follow her writing on Substack and Instagram @annajrollins.

All views expressed are the author's own.

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