Part II: In the Shadow of Transition

I remember a friend asking me, “What’s it like to live with Erb’s palsy?”

Unintentionally, he got the most honest answer out of me: “It’s the same as living in Macedonia. You do your best and want to move, but have a limit.”

I was born in 1992, seven months after Macedonia (now officially known by its new, controversial constitutional name, the Republic of North Macedonia) proclaimed its independence from Yugoslavia on September 8, 1991.

Factor: Country of Origin

Although Macedonia remained at peace during the Yugoslav Wars of the early 1990s, the country had its own battles to fight: establishing new government bodies and institutions, achieving monetary independence, and asserting itself as a sovereign state after decades of interdependence within the Yugoslav federation and a complex history—all while facing interethnic tensions that destabilized its peace and development, as well as diplomatic challenges, particularly with its neighboring countries.

The independence brought new yokes on the citizens. along with its promise of freedom.

The transition period hit everyone hard, including my parents. The radical shift from one system to another, and the long road toward consolidating the foundations of a market economy and parliamentary democracy, brought numerous challenges for this tiny nation. Macedonia seceded as one of the poorest regions of the former Yugoslavia.

In the 1990s and early 2000s, my mother worked as a primary school teacher (a role she continued until retirement), while my father held various jobs: running a small arcade business, reselling consumer goods, working in hospitality in Switzerland, and later working as a French–Macedonian translator.

Entangled in the web of economic and financial problems, my parents did the best they could to raise two kids with modest salaries and survive the period of transition, all while trying to find a solution for my Erb’s palsy. Looking back, I know their lives were marked by fighting many monsters and giant bosses, just like in their small arcade business.
After a while, they had to face the final boss: a severely underdeveloped health system.

Lack of empathy and accountability

My birth country has long struggled with systemic issues in healthcare, such as corruption, lack of accountability, and a culture of silence around medical errors. Too often, these incidents are either dismissed or concluded with statements like, “There was no medical mistake.”

For a long time, well into my teenage years, I avoided asking my parents about my birth injury because I sensed the heavy burden they carried—the feeling that they hadn’t done enough, even though none of it was their fault.

In my adolescence, I carried a deep sense of anger toward the healthcare professionals involved in my birth, and later toward the pediatrician who told my parents, with unsettling certainty, that the damage was permanent and there was nothing that could be done.

Surprisingly, I rarely felt any resentment toward the OB-GYN whose decision ultimately caused my injury. I was a large baby, and his assistant had reportedly suggested performing a cesarean section. But his ego prevailed, and my parents and I bore the consequences.

That anger resurfaced years later when I learned something that left me speechless. During one of our rare conversations about the injury, my mother—still carrying silent guilt after all these years that I couldn’t comprehend—told me what the maternity nurse said to her the day I was born. When my mom first saw me and asked about my loose arm, the nurse replied with an accusing tone:
“How can you be sure it was the doctor? Maybe something happened in the womb during your pregnancy.”

Hearing this broke something in me. Not because of the absurdity of the statement, but because I saw the sadness and doubt in my mother’s eyes—guilt that has been poisoning her for years. It wasn’t just an attempt to deflect responsibility; it was an attempt to shift blame to a mother who had done everything right.

High hopes, more accusations

During my high school years, my dad took me to an orthopedic clinic in the capital, following an exam that confirmed I had scoliosis.
During the hour-long drive from our hometown, Kumanovo, to Skopje, I remember my dad and I discussing the possibility that we might find younger professionals with more knowledge and a fresh perspective on my condition.

We first met a kind and warm orthopedic specialist who showed genuine interest in my case. He asked about my history of physiotherapy and overall progress. With full modesty and an almost shy approach, he admitted that he couldn’t help much but shared some exercises and advice with my father and me. Then he referred us to his colleague—a middle-aged woman who wore a doctor’s name tag and carried a coldness at the center of her heart.

The exam was brief, followed by an arrogant, passive-aggressive attitude toward my father.
I started crying. I think it was the first time I had ever cried about my arm in front of anyone. I felt desperate, hurt, and caught in a swirl of negative emotions caused by the doctor’s words and the rhetorical questions she threw at my dad.

Like a cannonball, her comments targeted him: “Why did you wait so long? Why haven’t you done more? It’s too late.” Then she turned to me: “Why are you crying? It is what it is. You should have thought about this earlier.”

I had never seen my father so broken and defeated. He had dedicated his entire life to finding a solution. He spent years working with me—with patience and love. He learned every exercise and movement. He sacrificed, he fought, he turned his sadness and powerlessness into motivation, and he taught me life.

I had so much I wanted to say to the doctor, but I knew it wasn’t worth it. I swallowed my anger, and we left the clinic.
From that day, I knew I was on my own. Little did I know that I would experience a life-altering truth almost a decade later.

To Be Continued

Lyrics of the day: The Faded Line – Lamb of God

Note: All songs, lyrics, artworks, images, and other forms of inspiration shared here reflect a deeply personal way of expressing emotions tied to a specific period in my life. Some of these pieces may not represent my current thoughts, beliefs, or circumstances, but I continue to include them as an authentic reflection of what I felt and experienced at that time.

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Originally written in February, 2024.

© All rights reserved. Written by Ana Topshiova, Founder at Zebras and Magpies.

This story is shared with the purpose of encouraging and supporting others on similar journeys, as well as educating, connecting, and raising awareness about Erb’s Palsy/BPI.