Creations of Pain

The story of a boy with sickle cell who is at first arrogant, then humbled.

Pain. It seemed to be the only thing that I knew before my fourteenth year, staying close to me, grappling onto my young bones with every step I took. Sometimes the pain would go away, even though it had seemed to grow fond of my presence. It seemed to test me once daily, in different ways. One day the pain might have tested my ability to stay humble, and if I failed in doing so, it would chisel at my spirit, improving this ability. Another day, the pain might have given me all of the freedom in the world, but as time continued, it would ask me if I was grateful for its absence. If my actions proved that I was indeed grateful, I would be spared of its corrections. If my actions proved the opposite, the pain would again chisel at my spirit.

            Unexpectedly, the pain decided to leave for a year. In its leave, I formulated a plan, militant endurance. I would not let it faze me, I would endure its overwhelming pressure with fortitude. Day by day I awaited its arrival, growing more and more impatient, loud, and arrogant.

Beep…Beep…Beeeeeep… “Shut up!” I yelled, as I smashed the snooze button on the top of my digital alarm clock. I rubbed my mucus-filled eyes, and slowly focused on the three red numbers that were plastered digitally on its screen. 7:00! Oh s**t! I have freshman mixed ensemble this morning! Disoriented, I wobbled to my feet while clamping my head in a futile attempt to get rid of morning headache. The door to the entrance of my room whipped ajar as my older brother barged in. He glared, with his veins pulsating and his eyebrows slanted. His Nike 5.0 shoes, bought by my mother of course, accentuated the two slender legs of a runner. In a serious tone, he made his intentions known.

“I’m leaving bro. Next time, you wake up earlier.”

“Okay dude, calm down.” I replied angrily.

I fumed with anger and while ignoring the fact that I was plagued with sickle cell anemia, refused to take the hydroxyurea" that millions of others might have needed in the prescription case. My cells haven’t sickled since last year, why would they now? I quickly readied myself for the upcoming day and realized that I would have to wake my mother from her sleep to get to school. Why can’t mom just drive me to school, she doesn’t even do anything.  I marched out of the kitchen, indeed very well fed from the food my mother had bought, and unclosed the door to my mother’s room. As a light sleeper, my mother woke instantly.

“What do you want? Eh?” She rasped dismissively.

As my mother sighed in exasperation, she rose out of her king-sized bed and rotated the lamp-switch, filling the room with light. She looked like a hard worker would in the morning. Tired, with bags under her eyes.

“Mom, Iggy left and I’m late and I need someone to take me to school.” I replied frantically. I rotated my head towards the beige, china-framed clock in her room, realizing that it was too late; I wouldn’t make it to mixed ensemble.

“Why are you always late? You need to stop this stupid behavior.”

Why are you still talking…? Hurry up. I was disrespectful and naïve. A polished ingrate. My mother struggled daily for the overall stability that our family enjoyed. Food was in excess. I attended a school that offered college classes. Where I lived, one could run freely at night. A friendly physician made it possible for me to enjoy the benefits of medicine specially made for my condition.  I was able to play sports, read and write, sing and dance, and see my family every day. The characteristics of gratefulness were, at the least, easy to obtain.

 As my mother parked near the entrance of my school, she asked a simple question, one that any mother had the right to ask. “What do you say?” I replied with the voice of an ingrate, proclaiming a nonchalant “whatever” and slammed the door of the car shut.

Ambling along the halls of a grand three story tall high school, I unknowingly performed the typical high school student. When a friend cracked a joke, I laughed hearty laughs and smiled whenever possible. I was exactly where I wanted to be, and was doing what I wanted to do. I was with my friends, having exciting conversations filled with gossip and tease. They consisted of who was going out with who, and which girls we had on our “radar”. In class I ignored the lessons, simply craving social interaction. If anything, I was extremely lucky, that I maintained great scores. Whilst shunning opportunities to learn, I thought I was doing everything I should have. I found no need to change.

Dong…Dong…Dong… Meanwhile, as the first bell rang, I walked through the halls oozing swagger. Positioned between my two selected friends, I pointed out and gave side fives to whoever I deemed worthy. Out of no-where, a blunt pain rammed against my chest at every breath. It was aggravating, limiting my ability to inhale the oxygen that my lungs so deserved. One breath yielded a sharper pain. Another yielded an even more piercing pain. Every breath seemed to impale my lungs with the sharpest of spears. The breaths grew shorter and shorter, and I realized from past experience that this was the onset of pneumonia. Pain had decided that my spirit had grown too far out of its expected shape. I had failed its test.

Consequently, pain flowed through not only my lungs, but my body as I executed my stride to the nurse’s office. My lungs became increasingly blocked, defining the pain of a sickle cell induced blockage. The pain was now accompanied by sharp pains in my feet"stinging like sea urchins in a cold lake. I was swimming in pain, and in every step I took, I felt an unseen resistance struggling to keep my body from moving. Ten minutes ago I had been arrogant, loud, and proud. Pain had humbled me, as I realized that I might not make it through the day. An era passed as I reached the nurses office. In between breaths, I wheezed outlandishly. “My lungs hurt.” I coughed, grimacing with every word spoken. Time slowed, and another era passed as my eyes closed shut. I might have even had the time to realize that pain would be my only friend in the next month.

            Three weeks later, I woke on a hospital bed, keeping the spirometer I used to exercise my fluid-filled lungs. I sat upright with an emaciated frame emulating more spirit than flesh. Lips around the spirometer, I inhaled to the largest capacity that the scarred lungs underneath my skin could muster. In this breath, pain voraciously chiseled at my spirit, travelling at the speed of light from the bottom of my useless lungs into the top of my skull. Meanwhile, as my lungs reached full capacity, the pain resonated and paved its way to the very bottom of my frail legs. Teeth clenched, I thought of my father’s words"that people with sickle cell, on average, lived only forty years. He told me that I should always take my medicine, no matter what. In ignorance I had doubted him, but the pain quickly removed this ignorance, reinforcing his very words. Indeed, I had taken my care for granted.

 With hard-earned oxygen in my lungs, I saw the sterile, silent, and eerie nature of the chamber for the first time in the horrible month. I resided in a fragile cube, with a white, sparkling floor that would explode with sound if the smallest pin touched it. I was stationary for most of my days, occasionally spending ten minutes to exercise my pitiful lungs and twig-like legs. If anything, I was more like a weak specimen trapped in a test tube than a human.

            As I eyed the room, two nurses entered, fully intent on ridding my lungs of the sputum that had manifested itself there. The first nurse was holding the “lung pounders”. I grew sick with fear the moment I saw them, because they brought even more pain. These were the tools that had mercilessly pounded my back for the past three weeks. It was ironic. They brought so much pain, yet they were used to heal me. The second nurse was holding a bucket in which I would empty my lungs. “Are you ready?” The first nurse asked, as she positioned the hospital bed in a way that allowed me to lie flat on my stomach. “Take a deep breath.” She commanded.

The breath brought tears as the pain chiseled at my spirit once again. This time, it worked with even more voracity. My plan of militant endurance had failed, I had succumbed. Pain brought thoughts of my mother as it resonated throughout my body. I rued the day I disrespected her, and pictured her face clearly in my mind. She was the one that so willingly spent every day and night by my side, bringing me food to eat, ignoring the calls for work she received. It spoke to me, seeming to say that my spirit had changed for the worst, requiring huge amounts of work for recovery. “Now cough!”

Pain continued its work, and with every exertion, every heave of my lungs, my spirit was shaped. The disrespect, gone. The qualities of an ingrate, smashed. The pain struck again and again, with every blow shaping me into a new person. Tears flowed in a never ending stream, representing the amount of pain I would experience in life. It was fine though, because every second in the month that I had spent with pain was humbling. I realized that I was not invincible, I was a mere human with flesh and bone who had decided to take for granted what was given to him. I had decided to dust the ground with the people and ideas I should have upheld. If I had shown gratefulness for my mother, siblings, and health, I would have passed the test that pain had given me. Pain continued its work relentlessly, but I was spared by an aura of sleep. In that same rest, pain had finished its work.

            I woke two days later, this time on my own bed. I inhaled deeply and felt nothing, only the air that had filled my lungs. I rushed upstairs, tears accumulating with every step I took. Through blurred eyes, I saw my mother in a light rest on the couch and embraced her as she woke.        

                     

“It’s gone mom, the pain, it’s gone.” I sobbed.

“I know son, I am grateful.” She replied. Grateful.