Personal Essay

I'm taking a leap of faith and posting my personal essay on here. I had to write it for my Journalism class. Read and enjoy.


Emilie Milcarek
April 19, 2011
Personal Essay

Sitting in a wheelchair in front of a window watching the fireworks over Dorney Park is not how I imagined my Fourth of July. 
Some friends of mine stopped by the hospital to say hello, but I really wish they didn’t. They all told me the same thing, “We wish you could come with us.” Yeah, me too.  I would love to be sitting on the beach tonight next to a cute guy by a bon fire watching the fireworks above us in Long Beach Island, N.J., but I’m sorry I can’t make it. I’ll be busy with my new friends, the nurses and staff on the night shift. 
The only friends who stayed with me that night was my mom and all the stuffed animals I received from my work and my sorority.
On the outside, I didn’t want anyone to stay with me. I wanted them to have a good time. I’m not one to hold anyone back. On the inside I was a mess. I was angry and upset that my friends still went on vacation even though I couldn’t go. How dare they. Yet, that’s not me. What is this feeling coming over me? I’m resentful of everyone. No one else is this position. No one. 
It’s an odd feeling not being able to feel my legs, but it’s not so bad now that I’m used to it. When you’ve been in the hospital for almost a week it’s easy to forget why you’re here. I’ve made good friends with the night time staff, mostly because they are always nicer than the day time crew. Even so, all the doctors know my name, and I it might be a while until I can take a real shower. 
These medications drain me. I’ve been on them since I got here. They keep trying different ones and only one painkiller works – if you can call it working. It has taken the edge off and has allowed me to sleep, but that is all. I wake up from my Percocet-induced nap and I’m holding my stomach and screaming for help. Why is someone ripping through my insides and pulling them apart. Am I dreaming? I’m alone. No one is touching me. 
The nurses finally come in, pull up my sleeve, and open the clear tunnel that leads from the outside right into my vein. I feel the cold liquid flowing through me like a metallic stream. My body gets the chills and I’m no longer screaming. I notice my mom holding my hand, but the look on her face is like none I’ve ever seen. This can’t be good.
My mom told me I’ve received three calls and eight text messages from my friends and family and asks if I want to hear them. I’m OK though. I already know what they say. Not to mention I would rather be able to read them myself and text back with my own hands rather than my mother’s. 
I am thankful for my mom. She hasn’t left my side since we’ve been here. I really wish this wasn’t happening. Not for me, but for her. If I was the only person to suffer through this predicament I could deal with it. I could suck it up and deal with it. I hate how it is affecting my mom. Every time she looks at me lying helplessly in this bed she wants to cry. It takes all my energy to make a wisecrack about some crazy nurse just to make her smile. 
I’ve been in the hospital for 11 days and I still cannot feel or move my legs. When I try to sit up it is deadweight below the waist. I’m finally thankful for all those years of cheerleading and gymnastics because my arm muscles haven’t dwindled much. My arms and hands gained back feeling a few days ago. My legs have to come back soon.
Being home is harder then I imagined. We moved my room down to the main level with no bed, just a mattress. It is so hard just to get up. This is so frustrating! Why is it so hard for me to take a few simple steps and get myself a glass of water? Every time I need something I have to ask my mom. I know she doesn’t mind, but she has work to do. Living with my handicapped sister is hard enough as it is. 
They put me in physical therapy to get me back to where I was. I doubted the idea when I first heard about it, but I went along with it just so I could get out of the house. 
Not knowing is probably the hardest part. I wish I knew. Hell, I wish they knew. No one knows why these episodes keep happening to me and, quite frankly, I’m annoyed. They are doctors. That is their job to figure it out. So why can’t they do anything? They just treat the symptoms.
Finally! I’m back where I need to be. I can stretch and move and go up and down stairs! Granted I’m pretty slow, but it’s a step, right? I’ll be back at Wesley College in no time.
I just started working out and now I’m back in the hospital for the second time. This is not OK. Why am I here? I have to get ready for school. I’m leaving in five days! 
My mom came into my room only three days after I got back into the hospital. Her effort to hold back the tears wasn’t going so well. As she took a seat next to me I could tell she had bad news. Two more doctors followed after her and then one of my nurses. 
They told me I wasn’t going back to school. I needed to be treated and to rest. 
I could do that at school, right? I can relax while I’m at school and still get my work done. I want to graduate next year. I want to be around my friends. I can’t just stay home and do nothing. I.... I.... I don’t think I have a choice in the matter. 
I left the hospital in a wheelchair seven days after that, but soon returned. 
This recurring nightmare is now happening for the third time.
I suppose it’s a good thing, considering I’m supposed to be at school now, but I’m home instead. This hospital seems to be my new home. I’ve already had three of the same nurses I’ve had before and the doctors were expecting me when my mom called the hospital and told them I was having another attack.
That’s what we’re calling it now, an attack. Makes it sound so violent. It sucks, yes, but not violent. Maybe it is. I don’t know what to think any more. The days are blending together and hours pass so slowly. All I do is sleep until the doctors and nurses come and check on me.
Why are there so many people in my room? All of them in white coats looking at me like I’m a puppy in a cardboard box. I’m not as active as I should be. Every person asks me the same questions and gets mad when my mom answers for me. I don’t even know most of the answers.
They have me on so many medications that are flowing through my body so frequently that my head is in a fog. I can’t think straight. Even now they all look blurry and I am struggling to keep my eyes open. The woman with the curly hair is asking me to sit up. My body is in so much pain. Why is it so heavy? Have I gained weight? I look down at my stomach through the top of my gown and my ribs are showing more than they ever have. I look down and my arms look like skeletons. Even my skin is so pale I can see the remainder of any veins I have left. The rivers of blue are faint and thin. No wonder my hands are cold. 
Home again; I’m finally going back to school. This is my time. I can’t wait to read and write and see my sorority sisters and teachers and sign up for my classes. You really have a new appreciation for education once you know what it feels like not be allowed to learn. I have a good feeling about this semester.
Back again. What the hell. It’s getting old. I was in school not even a full 24 hours. I had to get carried out of my room by a friend on the baseball team. He looked so scared. I wonder what I looked like. 
Every hospital visit is the same. They all last about 5-12 days. I can’t walk. I get stomach spasms, and I feel as though I’m living my life as a broken record. Going over the same three songs. One is sad, one is angry metal music, the other is silence. I see the record spinning, but nothing is playing.
At least I’m back at school. I’m so stressed out. I’m still having trouble getting up and moving around, just like all the other times. There is so much work to be done and I don’t think I can keep it all straight. I’ve had to drop classes so that I can keep up with everything and not get too stressed out, “doctor’s orders,” but I don’t think that’s possible. 
This is the sixth time I’ve been in the hospital. I can’t believe I’m missing more school. I better not be in here for long. I have shit to do. 
Not another spinal tap.
I can feel the liquid seeping through my back. The back of my head is pounding. I can’t think straight. All I feel is the pain. The nurse gave me morphine 10 minutes ago, but nothing is working.
It’s almost a year to the day that I first came to hospital. Most of the nurses are still here,   though I’m not in the same room. I have a roommate this time. The doctors come in and I can tell they are having their doubts. One doctor questions my motives about being in here. If they think it is for pain medication they are clearly mistaken. You try going to school on Oxycodone. Everything is blurry and all you want to do is sleep. I’ll deal with the pain instead, thanks. 
I can hear the fireworks over Dorney Park, just like last year, but this time I cannot see them, no one but my mom is with me, and the hallway is silent. The fireworks serve as a friendly reminder that nothing has changed.