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My Story That Doesn't Define Who I Am !
What Happened Is Part of Me, Not All of Me
The Story of Rissa Nicole
My name is Marissa Nicole, but most people know me as Rissa.
If there is one thing I want you to know before you read another word, it's this:
What happened to me is part of my story, but it is not my identity.
People often hear words like brain hemorrhage, coma, aplastic anemia, or epilepsy and immediately feel sorry for me. They see the diagnoses before they see the person. But I don't want pity. I want people to see proof that even after life knocks you down, you can still stand back up.
This isn't just a story about surviving illness.
It's about surviving fear.
It's about surviving the moments when I wondered if my life would ever be normal.
It's about learning that strength isn't pretending nothing happened. Strength is accepting what happened, carrying it with you, and still choosing to live a full life.
I hope that if you're reading this while you're scared, angry, or asking, "Why me?" you'll realize you aren't alone.
Because I asked those same questions.
And I'm still here.
Chapter One
From Fox Lake to Fighting for My Life
My story begins in Fox Lake, Illinois, where I grew up with my mom and dad. For the first seven years of my life, everything felt like a normal childhood. I laughed, played, dreamed, and never imagined that my entire life was about to change.
One night, while I was asleep, I suffered a brain hemorrhage that caused me to have a seizure. My parents had no idea that when they put me to bed, everything would be different by morning.
The situation became so critical that I had to be flown by helicopter to Lutheran General Children's Hospital in Chicago.
Doctors searched for answers and eventually discovered something much bigger than anyone expected.
I was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder called aplastic anemia. My body wasn't producing enough healthy blood cells. My white blood cell count was dangerously low. My platelet count was dangerously low. My body couldn't fight the battle it was facing on its own.
Soon after, I slipped into a coma.
For my family, every day became a waiting game. Every conversation with doctors carried uncertainty. Every moment was filled with hope mixed with fear.
To survive, I needed countless treatments, blood transfusions, and eventually a life-saving bone marrow transplant.
The months that followed were some of the hardest of my life, even though I don't remember every detail.
I spent nearly nine months confined to a hospital bed.
When I finally woke up, surviving wasn't the finish line.
It was the beginning of another fight.
I had to learn how to walk again.
I had to learn how to talk again.
I had to rebuild muscles that had forgotten how to move.
Simple things most people never think about became mountains I had to climb.
Just when it felt like I had overcome one battle, I faced another. I spent more time at Children's Hospital of Wisconsin in Milwaukee, where I became bed bound again and came frighteningly close to losing my life a second time.
Eventually, around the age of nine, I walked out of the hospital.
I was finally cured.
The scars didn't disappear.
The memories didn't disappear.
The fear didn't disappear.
But neither did I.
Looking back now, I don't see a weak little girl.
I see a warrior who refused to quit before she even understood what the word "survivor" meant.
That little girl had no idea what the future would hold.
She couldn't have known she would one day face epilepsy.
She couldn't have known anxiety would become another mountain to climb.
She couldn't have known there would be days she'd question why all of this happened to her.
But she also couldn't have known something even more important.
She was going to make it.
And years later, she'd be telling her story—not so people would feel sorry for her, but so someone else could believe they could survive too.
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