A Blessing In Disguise (RD3)

Kristin Briones

1 April 2011

RD3

When I was little, I had a tendency for getting sick a lot.  All kids get sick, it’s a fact of life.  Contracting chicken pox and having your tonsils removed is like a right of passage. I saw my friends as being lucky because none of them ever went to the hospital at least three times a year. [THESIS] Little did I know that this hospital visit would change my life forever and would show me that what I was going through was a blessing in disguise. [THESIS]

I awoke with a start one cold December morning.  My stomach was trying to tell me something, but my tiny nine year-old me wasn’t interested in what it had to say.  Eyelids weighed down with exhaustion, wanting to keep me safe in dreamland.  My body had pulled out all the stops to warn me of the unfortunate event to come.  Too bad I was too stubborn to listen.

The next thing I knew, I was running to the bathroom.  My painful past was about to 

catch up with me. BLEEEEHHHH! BLEEEHHH! It had been two years since my “curse” had 

come knocking at my door.  Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome, (CVS) was why I couldn’t be normal.  

Growing up, most of my friends were afraid of the dark or boogeymen hiding under their beds.  I was afraid of catching the flu.

I knew what horrors were in store for me during the next twenty-four hours.  Stomach 

pains, so severe it felt like someone was trying to slice my insides with a dull steak knife.  

Looking into the mirror; I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me.  Chalk white skin with sunken dull brown eyes glaring through stringy, black hair.  Who was this zombie watching my every move? I held saliva in my mouth, afraid to swallow.  My mind always convinces me it’ll help with the nausea.  Wiping sticky mucus-like remnants of vomit from the corners of my mouth, tears slowly dripped down my cheeks.

A new wave of nausea hits me and I double over the toilet.  I look at the contents of my 

stomach floating in the water.  That had been the sixth time in the last ten minutes that my 

stomach had emptied itself.  There was nothing left for me to throw-up...or was there?  I heaved once more and my eyes grew wide with fear.  Blood stained the immaculate porcelain bowl.  Not red, but brown.  It looked like bloody coffee grounds.  I pinched my nose, cringing at the awful smell.  A smell so pungent it would cause anyone inside the room to gag.  The taste would have to be the worst part.  Blood and bile fused with a hint of spit; a concoction of instant sickness.

I heard the worried voice of my Mom calling me through the wooden door that 

separated us.  I could barely hear her over my constant vomiting.  She inched the door open slowly and peered inside.  

“Are you okay,” she asks in a soft, calm voice.  Seeing me hunched over the toilet 

contorts her once placid face into one of fear and concern.  Quickly, she ran back to her 

bedroom and changed her clothes.  I walked slowly down the hall to my room to grab my pillow.  The one and only object that comforts me while I go through an episode.  

About ten minutes later we’re sitting in the Emergency Room at Kapiolani Medical 

Center.  On the ride over, my Mom kept telling me repeatedly how it was all going to be okay.  I had heard her say this often.  Her efforts were in vain.  I knew my fate.  Reassurance of any kind didn’t work anymore.  We sat there for the next five hours. 

“You’re still throwing up,” the idiot ER resident questioned.  I looked up from the pink, kidney shaped container I was holding. This had been the final straw.  I wanted to take that vomit filled bowl and pour all over his black faux leather shoes.  

“Doctor, have you contacted Dr. Wilson? She’s my daughter’s gastroenterologist,” my 

Mom said hopefully.  She and I both knew that if Dr. Wilson knew I was in the ER than I would be admitted immediately.  He told her that contacting my doctor was unnecessary because he had already diagnosed me with a case of the stomach flu.  That’s when my Mom went into full “Super-Mom” mode, telling him that he didn’t know what he was talking about.

A few days passed and my CVS was under control.  I had made a full recovery and the 

doctors said that I could return home in a couple of days.  I was happy to hear that because it was almost Christmas and truth be told I missed my bed.  But as I looked out the window, this strange gloomy feeling washed over my entire body. Why did I always get sick?  How come I can’t be normal like everybody else? Why me?  These questions bounced around the inside of my brain.  I turned slowly to look at my Mom.  She was lying down on a reclining chair next to my bed. Hopefully she had the answers to my questions.

“Mom, why can’t I be normal like all my friends?  Why am I the only one who always 

goes to the hospital? Why me? It’s not fair! I WANT TO BE NORMAL,” the words spewed out of my mouth just like the vomit had a couple days earlier.  She put down the magazine she was pretending to be interested in and sat down at the edge of the bed.  She grabbed my tiny hand, squeezing it as a sign of reassurance.

“Life isn’t always fair,” she began.  “But, I think people who suffer the most become 

much more stronger and braver than the others around them. You’re all better now and we’re going home soon, why don’t you think about that instead,” she smiles and lets go of my hand.  

“Why don’t we go for a walk,” she suggests.  My bare feet touch the ice cold floor for a 

split second.  I quickly pull on some socks and try not to tangle my IV lines.  As we both walk slowly down the deserted, bright, white hallway I gaze into the rooms we pass.  Many of them are empty, but there was one that caught my eye.  The walls of the tiny room were covered with various pictures and posters.

“Mom, why does that girl have so many posters on her wall,” I asked.  She smiled, but 

didn’t respond at first.  Tucked away behind a bunch of “Get Well” balloons  small Christmas tree on her bedside table.  “Does she live here?”

“Yes, there are other children who are much sicker than you.  They have to stay in here in 

the hospital so the doctors can keep an eye on them and maybe even find a cure for their illness.”

We continued on our way; turning the corner and coming face to face with a frail, young 

boy, sitting in a wheelchair.  His pale skin and sunken eyes reminded me of the monster I had seen a few days before inhabiting my reflection.  There was something different about him though.  He had no hair on his head or eyebrows above his eyelids.  My heart slowly sank as I realized that he had cancer.

We turned the last corner and were almost back to my room.  That’s when we crossed 

paths with a girl who like the boy was also sitting in a wheelchair.  She only had one leg.  

Smiling gently at my Mom and I, she rolled herself into a room wallpapered with the smiling faces of celebrities and pop stars.

After returning to my bed, I sat there for what seemed like forever.  I prayed to God 

thanking him for my illness.  It may be strange, but seeing all those other kids helped me realize that my “curse” was in fact a blessing in disguise.  I could have been born with a far worst condition, but I wasn’t.  

Before this happened, I thought I was some kind of freak. Now, because of my Mom’s words of wisdom and God’s will, I’m not afraid to talk about my illness. We all have breaking points and sometimes shattering into a million pieces is what we need.  I no longer think of my illness as a curse.