Vivienne Germain: FALSE COGNATES OF A REAL ILLNESS

Creative Nonfiction by Vivienne Germain
FALSE COGNATES OF A REAL ILLNESS

actuel ≠ actual

En faisant confiance à ce qu’on pense qu’on sait à première vue, on acquiert une sensation de compréhension actuelle.
Translation: By trusting what we think we know at first glance, we gain a feeling of current understanding.

In my high school French classes, kids tried to translate words by adding an “ay” sound to the end of English terms. Sometimes it worked—“to pay” is payer, “organized” is organisé, and “combined” is combiné—so they thought it was a smart idea to fumble through quizzes by concocting imaginary phrases like “j’ai forgoté à studyer.” But it was not a smart idea, and it was obvious that they forgot to study (oublié à étudier).

A naïve classmate would embarrass himself every year by saying he was excité for the field trip. “Excité” and “excited” are false cognates, words in different languages that look and sound similar but have different meanings. “La chair” is flesh, “le crayon” is a pencil, and “le pain” is bread. “Excité” means sexually aroused. The naïve student probably trusted his confidence in the word “excité” until learning its true meaning. Shocked, disappointed, and betrayed, he realized that he can’t trust a false cognate—but soon, he’ll accept, adjust, and move forward accordingly.

eventuellement ≠ eventually

Je vais éventuellement passer un été en France.
Translation: I will possibly spend a summer in France.

By college, I was working toward rosy dreams of studying abroad in France—and I was a student who never straggled. I could type A-papers and annotate hundred-page readings. I enjoyed animated classroom discussions, and dining hall discussions even more. I went to classes early, walking briskly while wearing neat outfits with matching earrings that made people say, “she’s so put-together.” Driven, in control, and in constant motion, I thrived in a fast-paced college life. I did well in school, got into a study-abroad program, and planned to spend two months in Avignon, France.

attendre ≠ attend

J’attends toujours.
Translation: I’m always waiting.

Immediately after accepting study-abroad admission, my life decelerated. Small items slipped from my grasp—pencils, shoelaces, earrings—and I struggled to move my fingers to type sentences. I couldn’t read through my new double vision. I could barely look classmates in the eye, shape my face into a smile, or move my lips to speak clearly. I stopped attending meals, unable to walk: My stride would slow to an insectile pace until my legs wouldn’t move at all, as if they couldn’t hear my brain telling them to take a step. My body became a worn-down computer, buffering more than functioning.

One night, I collapsed on the steps three flights below my dorm. I squinted at my phone through failing eyes and messaged a group chat with failing fingers: “If you help me with the stairs, I will bring you coffee tomorrow.” I realized I couldn’t get anyone coffee in my barely-functional body. “If you help me with the stairs, I will venmo you coffee tomorrow,” I edited. While waiting for a response, I watched my neighbors rush down the hallway. I observed their shoes, their attitudes, their smiles, and their fatigue. People-watching is popular at Parisian cafés, where friends sit side-by-side at tables facing the street. But I sat in solitude, quietly and patiently like a birdwatcher while other students scurried in the wild.

prétendre ≠ pretend

Je peux facilement prétendre que je vais bien.
Translation: I can easily claim that I’m doing well.

Despite admitting my problem, I tried to pretend I was able-bodied. I enjoyed daily breakfasts with my friend, chatting and romanticizing our upcoming summers in Italy and France, respectively. But one afternoon, I spoke to the same friend with slurred speech, my consonants waning like a melting candle. She watched me with a pitying frown instead of her usual buoyant smile. I asked if I was looking at her, and she told me I was gazing slightly above and to the left. I forced a laugh through lips with static corners. “That’s so funny,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m doing totally fine.” My baby-like diction was barely comprehensible. I stopped attempting eye contact. I started to cry.

déception ≠ deception

Je fais face à la déception à cause de mon corps.
Translation: I’m facing disappointment because of my body.

Defeated, I went to a hospital. The doctor said that nothing was wrong: My body was playing tricks on me, or maybe I was playing tricks on him. After I called my mom in tears, she took me to a bigger hospital. The neurologists offered two possibilities: myasthenia gravis, considered unlikely, and functional neurological disorder (FND), the expected diagnosis. FND is unspecified self-deception, when a person fools their body into physical dysfunction. While this potential diagnosis felt insulting, it gave me hope. FND is a short-term, psychological condition easily resolved with therapy.

A week later, my blood tested positive for AChR antibodies indicative of myasthenia gravis, a rare, chronic, neuromuscular autoimmune disease. Acetylcholine receptor antibodies were blocking my brain from communicating with my muscles. Where I thought I was functioning, I was failing: My body had become a false cognate. My doctors told me not to look forward to a summer in France.

demander ≠ demand

Je peux demander ce que je veux et ce dont j’ai besoin.
Translation: I can request what I want and what I need.

After I received a diagnosis, my college gave me access to van services. I could hail a ride from my phone to travel anywhere on campus. For the first time in weeks, I was free to leave my dorm. I went to the student center to study; after, I walked to the curb—for me, a twenty-minute journey—and requested a ride from the van. No rides available, it said. I tried again. No rides available. I dropped my backpack and waited ten more minutes. No rides available.

A middle-aged man approached me on the sidewalk while I waited. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, its smoke surrounding me in a ghastly fog. He asked how I was doing; I said I was fine. I tried to leave, but my legs would not move. He shifted closer to me, smelling like a week of tobacco. “I like your hair,” he said. “You’re very pretty.” He spoke like a serpent. Restrained by myasthenia, I could only hail another ride. Available in thirty-seven minutes. I requested a ride again. Available in forty-three minutes. I accepted the wait. I watched with disgust as pigeons gathered near my anchored feet, and I watched with jealousy as they flew away.

blessure ≠ blessing

Je vais gérer ce défi si je considère la myasthénie grave comme une blessure.
Translation: I will handle this challenge if I consider myasthenia gravis an injury.

My friends encouraged me to throw a diagnosis party, a celebration that my sickness had a name. The party theme was “things that sound like myasthenia gravis.” False cognates. I encouraged visual aids: My friends drew a girl selling tomatoes, “Maya’s teeny ag biz,” or small agricultural business; a portrait of Maya Rudolph, “Maya’s the new gravity”; and a sketch of my friend walking away from a man, “My ass is seein’ ya, Travis.” We laughed at the silly, senseless homophones for my severe chronic illness.

After the party, I returned to my new, accessible dorm, slumped onto a bed that didn’t feel like it was mine, and cried. That afternoon, tears healed more than laughter. Myasthenia gravis wasn’t a gift. I wouldn’t overcome it by disguising it in quirky false cognates and celebrating it with afternoon wine. I’d only overcome it by facing it as an impediment.

rester ≠ rest

Mes inquiétudes concernant la myasthénie grave resteront.
Translation: My worries about myasthenia gravis will remain.

After prescribing a robust medication regimen, my doctors agreed that I could go to France, which I imagined as a couple of months without thinking about my disability. As soon as I arrived, Avignon enchanted me: Cars, bicycles, and pedestrians shared narrow, cobbled streets at a slow tempo. Charming beige pathways matched medieval beige architecture. Slatted shutters framed tall windows on short buildings. The only reminders of American cities were the jaded pigeons—but I ignored them. Provence was the setting of fairy tales. I intended to focus exclusively on lavender, late sunsets, and fine wine.

My study-abroad program started with a walking tour. Half an hour into the three-hour journey, I lagged the group—a few feet behind, then a few dozen feet behind. I gave up on a bench while my peers disappeared down a winding alleyway, and pigeons scuttled around me. Even in France, I couldn’t take a break from myasthenia gravis—but crying wasn’t going to help. After learning the true meaning of a false cognate, the student must accept, adjust, and move forward accordingly. I took out my phone to figure out what to do next.

accepter = accept

Je dois accepter ma nouvelle réalité.
Translation: I must accept my new reality.

Later in the summer, my program took a day trip to Uzès, a small commune whose cream-colored buildings were ornamented with pastel shutters in faded tones of blue, pink, and green. We bought lunch at the outdoor market that filled the streets with bustling shoppers and hurried vendors. We traveled to Le Gardon, a river tucked in a majestic mountain range, and ate next to Pont du Gard, a stately bridge with romanesque stone arches. We were there for a canoe ride—but if I tried to paddle down the river, I would have lost mobility and ended up stranded at best, drowned at worst.

I didn’t force myself into a canoe, and I didn’t cry about it. I went to a nearby museum. I admired the work on display, from a maze in a dark room, only illuminated by little lights along labyrinthine pathways, to historical exhibits, unveiling archeological secrets of Uzès and its architecture. I bought souvenirs, ice cream, and a bottle of water, speaking to the cashier in confident French without tripping over words or misusing “excité.” False cognates were no longer intimidating opponents. I didn’t fall for their tricks anymore. I toyed with the souvenirs, felt the ice cream melt on my tongue, and took a pill with the bottle of water. My body was glad to accept the pill.

Vivienne Germain is a writer, woman, naysayer, and daydreamer. She received a B.A. in English from Harvard University and an M.A. in Journalism from NYU. She is currently based in New York City.