Things Fall Apart

My life, not the novel

August 5, 2025

Dear Smythe,

“What happens if I stop the infusions?” I asked the doctor.

“You have two months,” she said. “Maybe three. Before the immunoglobulins completely clear from your blood.”

Two or three months before I go back to that? Those terrible, infinite months rushed back into my brain, the memory made my body feel ill all over again. Being essentially bedridden, barely being able to take a shower, or cook dinner, too drained to do more than exist by a thread, joy even further away than the sun during an Irish winter. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Because you know,” I stumbled over my words, “I have been in touch with Dr McCann, I’m not sure if you know about it. He wrote a letter for me. My visa is expiring in October and I’m applying for one that will allow me to stay in Ireland on medical grounds. But I’m not sure if I’ll get it.”

Rebecca was visibly concerned. “You poor thing. If there’s anything you need, Dr McCann will get it for you, he’s very kind. He’ll do anything to help.”

I nodded, trying not to cry.

“Do you know when you will hear back?” she asked.

“No. Hopefully soon.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. I heard the anxiety in her voice, “You must be so worried.”

“Yes. I am.” I forced a chuckle but fooled no one.

Two weeks later, I received an email from my solicitor informing me that the Minister of Justice had denied my application for a Stamp 4 visa. Rebecca’s words whirled in a loop in my brain. Two, maybe three months.

“But why did they do this,” I asked Tracey, my solicitor, the next day, “When they know how extraordinary the circumstances are?”

“They did grant you an extra six months,” she said. “To give you time to find another way to stay in the country.”

Six months are nothing compared to the rest of my life, I thought, and the words yearned to shoot sharply from my mouth.

“I’ve tried for the last two years to find another way to stay. Nothing has worked. That’s why I applied for this.”

“It isn’t worth appealing,” Tracey said. “If they hadn’t given you the six months, I would have said it’s worth it to try. But they have a strong case since they gave you some extra time.”

So, Smythe. Here I am. I have tried everything within my power to stay in Ireland. I’ve applied to hundreds of jobs looking for sponsorship, I’ve applied to PhD programs in almost every university in the country – landing a couple acceptances but NO funding, I’ve applied on a special appeal to the Minister of Justice on the grounds of my health. It has all fallen through. The process has been so physically, emotionally, and mentally draining, that if it weren’t for my health – my own life – at stake I would have returned to the United States months ago.

It feels like the universe is trying to tell me something but I don’t know what. I was born something called common variable immunodeficiency (CVID). This means that where most people naturally have the IgG antibodies that give them an immune system, mine are, for some unknown reason, not there. Because I have no natural immune system, my body cannot defend myself from disease, and this is why I ended up becoming so ill. Unfortunately, this condition is not curable. I will require lifelong infusions of immunoglobulins in order to have something close to a normal life. Upon being diagnosed with CVID, most people who do not receive treatment live an average of 12 years post-diagnosis. Most people who do receive treatment live an average of 50+ years post-diagnosis. Each infusion costs $10,000 in America, which means one year’s treatment would cost me $180,000. Back home, my healthcare would be impossibly costly. The worth of a human life. It seems so expensive, and yet so very low at the same time. This is what I wrote in my letter to the Minister of Justice. It wasn’t good enough.

So, what is the universe trying to say? Having been born with a condition that guarantees a miserable life and early death, in a country where healthcare is exorbitant to the point of being unachievable – what am I supposed to make of this? Do I go back to the US to what feels like a death sentence? How I am supposed to keep fighting to stay in Ireland, when every avenue is closed? My pockets are profoundly empty, my soul is drained, and every door I try to open is locked. I think back to how happy I was, three long years ago, to move to Ireland and follow my dream. I can’t help but feel broken-hearted for the girl who had no idea what was ahead. I am glad for myself, at least, that there was a time when I did feel happy.

Warmly,

Marguerite