My Medical Scares

This is my story about me when I was six years of age when I had to go into the hospital to have a cist drained from my brain. This is two stories in one. One from my side and one from my mother's side how she told me.

I would guess six years old is probably too early for someone to go under the knife.  Of course I had no choice, if this operation meant life or death, then I guess I had no choice.  I was six then.  I was still in kidnergarden.  I vaguely remember that day when I went into Riley Hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana.  However, I remember the kid things.  The carousel horse in a cage full of balls that were multi-colored.  The open glassed elevator that looked "awesome" to me at the time. And who could forget the stuffed animals that were sitting on top of the walls on shelves.  They seemed to smile at me to reassure me that I was in good hands.  I was.  Faithfully, I was.

 

Speaking of faith...I had the prayers from the church.  The church that loved.  The pastor that went out of his way to come down and pray for me before my surgery.  Perhaps that is why the surgery was successful.  Of course works without faith is useless and vise-versa.  I have heard stories from my mother that all accross America, people were praying for me.  I believe that is true.  God was watching out for his child.  A child that was sick and needed medical attention.  Death for God was not an option.

 

Then I remember the gown showed by rear end.  I put it on and I felt naked.  A little kid laughed at me when I walked out of the changing room, but I did not care.  My mommy was there to cuddle me before the doctors took me away.  Looking back now, I could tell she feared for me.  It was a mother's fear.  A fear of loss was surrounding her, because her baby boy was going to have some surgery.  It could only be described as love.  Love is like a rose, it keeps on giving and giving and not taking anything.  Love is truely from God.  Without his love that day, I would probably not be writing this thing right now.

 

Then, the doctors came.  Well actually the nurses.  They came and got me.  They shaved my hair off.  I was bald.  They gave me a bath with rubber duckies and toys.  I thought it was a lot of fun.  I looked in the mirror, and I saw a chunky bald-headed six year old.  I thought it was funny.  But the fun time was over, I had to go to surgery.  I got onto a stretcher.  I looked at the female nurse and I told her that my tooth was loose.  She was nice and humored me.  She rudely put the gas mask over my mouth and nose and told me to breathe in deeply.  I did and I fell asleep.

 

Then I woke up later.  I saw my father.  The 37 year old man.  "Steven," I could barely hear him say. "Steven."  My eyes were open, but my eye lids were like rocks.  I could barely keep them open.  Plus, my vision was fuzzy.  I knew it was my father's voice.  The mid-toned voice.  The loving voice.  However, the voice stopped when I fell asleep again.

 

I woke up later and everything was dark.  There were nurses and doctors all around me.  They were running and pushing me on the stretcher to another room.  Then, out of nowhere, a needle went though my leg.  They shot me.  I hated needles and to this day I hate getting shots.  I cryed, but then fell asleep.

 

The next thing that I remember is waking up with a bad head ache.  It is a no-brainer, I just had cist juice squeezed out of me.  They opened up my skull and bandaged the top of my head up.  There were thing beeping.   I had a tube inside of my penis so I could pee without going to the toilet.  I had straps on me.  It monitored my heart beat and monitored my breathing.  I hated this room.  Then, I think it was a day or so later.  They took the tube out and it felt weird.  I cannot really explain the sensation.  But now, if I needed to pee, then I had to tell one of the nurses and then they had to bring a cup for me to pee in.  One such occation arose.  I told the nurse that I had to pee.  She came in with a cup and I peed in it and, at the time did not understand, but now do, she studied it.  I think it was to test if I were healthy.

 

My sweet mother would stay with me all night long.  I woke up one night and I found her sitting on a chair next to my bed.  I was so happy.  I felt secure.  I did not know if the nurses or doctors were there to help me, but now I know the answer.  However, the love and care pales into comparison my mother and father gave me.  They gave me a koosh ball.  I would sqeeze that thing, but it would stay in the same shape.  I had that thing for years, but the head broke off and then I lost it.  I miss that thing.  I remember them giving me a koosh ball.

 

One of the last things I remember about being in the hospital was that if I wanted to leave, I had to poop.  I tried a few times and failed.  I was getting frustrated and even argued with the doctors and nurses.  They knew my pain.  I wanted to leave and go back home, but I could not.  They had to make sure I made a full recovery.  So, I did what I did best.  I prayed.  I know now that children have the biggest and highest form of faith out there.  It is literaly untainted.  They seem not to know any boundries, and I was no exception.  I put my hands together, bowed my head and I said to God, "Jesus, please help me poop."  That simple request sqeezed out a little t**d.  I was so happy and I told my parents to come in here and look.  Man, that was a good day and I look back and I laugh.  Because I used to call turds, turtles.

 

Then, the very same day, I left the hospital.  My grandparents were there to help me out.  They drove us home, however, along the way, we stopped at McDonald's so I could poop again.  Wow, Jesus really answered my prayers, and then some.

 

However, the biggest miracle of all was that my mother had so much faith in God that she refused to get a monthly shunt put into my head.  She told the doctors no, but they said that if I did not get a shunt that I would have seizures, but I never have had one.   The doctors say that I would be four years behind on my motor skills, but I can type about 32 words per minute and throw a football about 20-30 yards.  That is how great God is.  God helped me and I am eternally greatful for that.

Author's Note

I hope you like it.

Reviews

[Nickolaus A. Pacione]

You got the right idea but not quite the right length I want with this, can you make it at least 2500 words as to fit the guidelines to the contest? The story is well done, don't get me wrong -- can you see if you can get the story to 2500 words?