By Laryssa Kapitanec
Scriptor
Wylie E Groves HS
1st Place
Division 3, News Writing
Personal Narrative
“On a scale from one to ten, what is your pain level?”
I was asked this question many times my sophomore year of high school. Every time I answered this question, I thought “What even is a ten?” A ten is annihilating.
I had been living with my eyes closed, oblivious to the real world. In the real world, people get sick. It may be when you’re elderly, young, or middle-aged. All I know is that everyone will get sick, and when it’s your time, you think “why now?”
It started in the middle of the night. Excruciating pain in my side. I couldn’t move or get up from my bed. Everyday was pain. Going to school was a nightmare. This went on for three months, along with several ER and doctor visits. It was my first time being an actual patient at a hospital. My first time having CT scans, MRI’s, and IV’s. I’ve been pumped up with all kinds of drugs and fluids, and it took three months to figure out what was wrong me.
“The signs from your tests and x-rays show inflammation in your small intestine,” the doctor explained. “It’s called Crohn’s disease, and you’ll have it forever.”
To heal the inflammation, I had to stop eating for three months. Never will I ever drink a protein shake again. Special K protein shakes were breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and the hunger and emptiness made me feel like a decaying corpse. Fatigue drowned me. I slept day and night. I was losing my social life. People didn’t even realize that I was in their class.
I tried to make myself feel normal by doing all the things I loved to do. I skied in the Rockies, joined ski club, skated on the varsity team, and worked hard to keep good grades. All of this caused pain, but it made me feel like I
was still normal. I started getting Remicade: an IV treatment for Crohn’s. I was dehydrated to the point where the IV had to be inserted into my foot. Weeks
went by, and the Remicade failed. I continued on with my life in pain.
On a snowy weekend in February, my friend invited me up north. I hadn’t spent any time with my friends because I was sick and tired everyday. I didn’t want to bail on her for the hundredth time, so I agreed to go. We went skiing and sledding. I could manage. I had an amazing week and came home happy. My mom made lemon rice, my favorite soup, and had it prepared for me when I arrived home. Little did I know that it was my last night in the comfort of my own home for a while.
I was rushed to the hospital. When the doctor pressed on my stomach, I screamed.
“We are going to have to omit her… the next step might be surgery.”
I was wheeled through the bowels of Beaumont Hospital, winding through dark grey tunnels. I was placed in the children’s hospital, in a room with a view of the parking lot. The bed was stiff, and the room smelled like generic sanitizer. I was visited by nurses and doctors frequently. I never slept as doctors woke me up at three in the morning. I was restricted from food and drink. Ironically, I was wearing a red, oversized t-shirt that had “Food” printed in fat letters on it. My mom didn’t even notice the shirt when she packed it. Many doctors got a laugh out of that. On the fourth day, I woke up to a team of surgeons at the foot of my hospital bed. They stood with perfect posture and spoke with intelligent speech. They had a meeting with me and my parents and decided that surgery was the best option. They drew pictures, wrote down words, and explained what they were going to do to my body, as if I were a science fair project. I was going to be sliced open and operated on. The diseased part of my small intestine needed to be cut out. I became a name on a board for a Friday surgery.
I threw up three times before the surgery and was wheeled to the OR with my parents and grandma. They were holding my clammy hands, while the surgeons marched into my room dressed up in scrubs and masks. “We are ready to start,” they announced.
My heart dropped into my stomach. That could have been the last time I saw my parents and grandma. I was wheeled into the OR. I was surprised because it did not look anything like the show Grey’s Anatomy. The surgeons were fidgeting and placing strange objects on my body, while I shivered from the cold temperature. I decided to make one last joke and I said, “Woaaahhh this doesn’t look anything like Grey’s Anatomy.”
They laughed and smiled.
My eyes drifted away, and that is the last thing I remember.
I woke up with my eyes closed. I heard unfamiliar voices…“She’s awake”. I instantly started bawling. The pain was unbelievable, as if someone was digging a knife into my side. I opened my eyes once and heard my mother’s voice. I tried to talk but couldn’t. There was a tube down my throat, every word I spoke strangling me. I threw up every time I pushed the button that pumped morphine into my veins. I laid paralyzed in that bed for three days. Sitting and standing up was a great accomplishment. Once I grew stronger, I advanced to steps.
“You really need to walk around; that’s going to help you heal,” my mom uttered. I peeled my eyes open from a forced sleep. I groaned and stretched my arms over my face. Sitting up was a marathon. My mother placed my slippers in front of my legs. I slid my feet and wiggled my heels in. I pulled my I.V. pole with me like a dog on a leash. Beep…Beep…Beep. I took gradual steps out the
door and through the hallway. My mom and I walked around a million times. The hallways were quiet and empty. Each room had a cartoon such as Bugs Bunny or Scooby Doo painted on the window. I surveyed the other patients. I was the oldest.
Every time I trudged through the hallway, I saw the same girl. She was about 4-year’s-old. Her father pulled her in a red, Radio Flyer wagon. We passed numerous times. I knew she had cancer. The few hairs she had left were bleach blonde and thin. She carried a blank look on her face. This young girl, whom I had never met before, is what shattered me. It was as if I was watching a somber movie… only I was living it. Her father looked at her with unconditional love. I thought of how my mom had been with me through this awful time of my life. That night my tears and prayers were dedicated to her because I realized, when we’re weak, we all need someone to help us pull the wagon.