9/12/07
At the time, I was old enough to walk and talk, but I hadn’t memorized the fifty states and their capitols yet. You be the judge of my specific age. I had a soccer game previously that day, in the old days where we’d still be given oranges at halftime and pop after the game was over. Looking through the cooler of soda, I picked through the ice and found something new: a can of Surge. For those of you who don’t remember Surge, it was probably the off brand of Mountain Dew or Mellow Yellow, and maybe it’s still around, but I’m not going to seek an adventure to Wal-Mart to find it.
I guzzled down my can of Surge, walking to my parents’ mini van (the vehicle equipped specifically for all soccer moms). Everyone got in and we took our journey back home. Details are fuzzy after the game. When I was around this age, I was considered a Lego Maniac, so I’m almost certain when we got home I started building something. That night, after brushing my teeth, I snuggled under my Lion King covers.
It was one of those nights where counting sheep just wouldn’t do the trick. I was tucked in my bed for about an hour when I started getting sharp pains in my stomach. I didn’t want to wake my parents up, so I tried to wait it out. I couldn’t. My parents were snoozing away in the room right next to mine, leaving only one wall for me to penetrate through for them to hear my sobs. Some time after I started crying as loud as I could, my mom came in to see what was wrong. After she heard the scoop, she called a doctor, who said it was merely a gas bubble (damn Surge). But do you think I would tell you something as embarrassing as a time when I had gas? I think not.
The doctor suggested I get in a warm bath until the pain goes away. My parents claim to this day that I was violently shrieking, holding my waist while sitting in the tub. My eyes were wide open all night, and my mom took me to see the doctor in the morning. After reviewing the symptoms I had complained about, the doctor plainly stated, “you should be in the hospital.” My pain tolerance was too high; I should’ve felt some discomfort a long time before the night I actually did.
We walked in the hospital room, noting its beautiful design of white curtains with white walls accented by white tiles. However pleasing the arrangement of the room was, the pain in my stomach was getting worse. Soon after entering, I was wheeled away to a different room, getting an IV as well as several tests done. The diagnosis? Kidney infection. I stayed in the hospital for several more days, friends bringing me cards and parents giving me a Lego airplane set. The only activities I could find to do were watching movies and counting the ceiling tiles, waiting to be released.
Finally they let me free. Every year after this experience, I’d have to get a test done. Nurses would fill up my bladder with some sort of solution using a catheter. This was a painful and demoralizing test, and I had to go through it at least seven times until all my symptoms cleared up. Around my sophomore year in high school (this time I can remember how old I was), my mom got a phone call from the nurse in charge of the test. She came over to me and hugged me, whispering, “You’re done”. We both started crying, knowing that this one illness that had haunted me for almost my whole life was out of my system. I won’t live in fear about having to take the test, and I won’t have nightmares anymore, but I also won’t drink another can of Surge to remind me of that night.
