The Dragon's Soul. Unveiling the Truth

“Hypoxia.” That single word split my life into before and after. And not just mine. “Your daughter has chronic hypoxia,” Doctor Ust said, looking at the ten-year-old girl with big blue eyes. My parents first glanced at me with sympathy, then exchanged worried looks. “What does that mean, doctor?” my mother asked, her voice unsteady. “Unfortunately, your daughter suffers from chronic oxygen deficiency. It means that certain areas of her body — or sometimes the whole organism — aren’t getting enough oxygen. It causes significant damage to organs and tissues and, in some cases, can lead to a fatal outcome,” Doctor Est explained in terms my parents could understand. “Chronic hypoxia develops over several years,” he continued. “When did you first notice symptoms? I mean weakness, excessive sleepiness, headaches, dizziness, memory issues?” he asked, turning to my mother. “She was always a fragile child, but… I admit, I never paid serious attention to her condition until last year, when she fainted for the first time.” My mother looked at me again and gently placed her soft hand on my shoulder. “Doctor, what can we do to cure her?” my father asked, anxiety breaking through his voice. My father loved me more than he loved any of his children. There were three of us. My older sister and younger brother were with our grandmother at the time. I envied them. I loved being at Grandma’s house. But for the past month, I’d been taken from one examination to another, so the doctors could figure out what was wrong with me. Only Doctor Est, a professor of natural sciences and a top-level neurologist, managed to give us at least some kind of diagnosis — hypoxia. Did I understand what it meant then? Probably not. I didn’t care. I just wanted to sleep and be left alone. “This condition is more than serious,” the doctor continued. “The consequences depend on the speed of its progression and the degree of oxygen deprivation. Sudden acute hypoxia ends in death. In advanced cases, cerebral edema develops, which leads to severe consequences: hallucinations, loss of reflexes, organ failure, and ultimately, coma.” “What can we do to help her, doctor? Surely what you described isn’t inevitable?” my mother asked, nearly in tears. “Hypoxia can be treated,” the doctor said, looking directly at me. “Treatment focuses on restoring oxygen saturation in tissues and eliminating the root causes of the deficiency. Sometimes increased physical activity in fresh air is enough. But you will need to completely change your lifestyle. Move permanently closer to a forest. The city is not suitable for Arina. In critical situations, we may need to use oxygen therapy and mechanical ventilation to force oxygen into the lungs, saturating the blood and removing carbon dioxide.” “You are saying we must abandon a multimillion-population metropolis and move to a small village in the middle of the forest to save our daughter’s life?” my father asked, outraged. “Yes. Exactly that, Mr. Bartolomei. If you want to improve your daughter’s condition — or save her life — you must live in nature, not in a polluted city,” Doctor Est concluded. “But what about proper medical care? Will we get timely and qualified help in a village?” my mother asked, just as troubled. “If you change your living environment to a suitable one, Arina might not need medical intervention at all,” the doctor replied. “Might?” my father repeated. “No guarantees, doctor? You expect me to uproot my entire life with no certainty?” “The only guarantee I can give you, Mr. Bartolomei, is that this girl will develop complications incompatible with life if you do not immediately relocate her,” Doctor Ust said firmly. And that was how hypoxia divided my life into before and after. Soon after we moved to a village on the edge of the forest, my parents divorced. My father couldn’t live in the countryside. Work and ambition mattered more to him. My sister and brother blamed me for the divorce. Maybe they were right. Without me — and my hypoxia — they would have continued their wonderful life in the heart of a thriving metropolis. My older sister, three years ahead of me, seemed to hate me more with each passing day. She had been a straight-A student, an athlete, the most popular girl in school. She lost all of that — her activities, her status, her life, her future. But worst of all, my illness didn’t go away. Fresh air helped me a little, briefly, but the stress of the move only worsened my episodes of oxygen deficiency.