It was March of fifth grade and I was living off sips of Gatorade. The last time I’d had any actual food was in January. My body was skeletal and looked like I’d break if I slipped and fell. I kept asking myself, “What is wrong with me?” I wasn’t on some sort of starvation diet because I was scared that the food would make me get fat. However, that’s what everyone insisted the problem was.
Dr. Monroe, my pediatrician had started that theory after finding out I was on a high-pressure gymnastics team. To her credit, Dr. Monore had done an abdominal x-ray and some initial blood work. But when her tests came back normal, I asked her “What is wrong with me?”
Jonathan (my 5-year-old brother) was struggling in kindergarten.
“I think he might be on the autism spectrum,” I heard his teacher say to my mom when we went to his classroom to pick him up. The school kicked me out after I got dizzy in class too many times. When they sent me to the nurse’s office for it, my blood pressure would be so low that they would have to call my mom to bring me home and make an emergency doctor’s appointment with Dr. Monroe
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They decided that I couldn’t go back to school until I was eating three meals a day and had a doctor’s note clearing me to return.
That day the teacher pulled my mom aside, my mom sounded angry.
“He is not, autistic” my mom glared at Jonathan’s teacher.
“He needs testing done if he ever wants to graduate kindergarten. At the very least he has severe learning disabilities.” The teacher told my mom, as Jonathan stared intently at a skid mark on the linoleum floor.
It was another whole year before Jonathan got the testing done. He had to repeat kindergarten. But again, Jonathan wasn’t in immediate danger of dying, so my issues were the ones put front and center, and all my parent’s energy was thrown into playing food police on me.
Everything started at age eight when I stopped being able to eat lunch at school. If you ask a thousand different people with gastroparesis, “What do you do when your stomach fails you?” They will give you a thousand different answers. When I was in third grade my answer was to refuse to eat lunch and snacks anymore.
Of course, this made my parents very anxious, and started them asking me a bazillion questions. I almost wanted to ask them, “What would you do when your stomach fails you?” but I knew I couldn’t talk to my parents like that.
It wasn’t until the end of third grade and the summer of my nine-year-old check-up that my parents really went on high alert. But as soon as I saw Dr. Monroe, my pediatrician, she noticed I had fallen off the growth charts for weight and then was reminded that even though I had barely turned nine I was on the highly competitive level six gymnastics team. Instead of thinking, “What do you do when your stomach fails you?” She decided to plaster me with the eating disorder label and dismiss all possible physical possibilities for my stomach failing me.
I can trace my descent into chronic illness all the way back to age eight. Up until then, I was actually a healthy kid. Until then there was no mention of hospitals, tube feeding, IV nutrition, terminal illness, or unrelenting pain. None of that. Back then there was no talk about me having an eating disorder.
The first sign of any issues occurred in third grade when I began suffering from frequent pounding headaches.
Another early sign of something amiss was how dry my body was. If I went a couple of hours without sipping on a drink I could put a finger in my mouth and move it around, and my entire mouth would be bone dry.
My skin began to get very dry as well, and I noticed something odd, I no longer could sweat, no matter how hot the temperature was.
Even my eyes were super dry to the point where it made my vision blurry.
My current nursing care team was only made up of two people. Laurie, my PCA, and Jackie, my nurse. However, about a week earlier, my nurse Jackie had dropped the bucket of bad news over my head. She was going back to school to become a nurse practitioner. After posting a whole lot of Facebook ads and interviewing three to four nurses, I made contact with Melody. As I tried to describe the nursing care I required in medical terms, Jeff butted in. He gave her the rundown on what I was like and how my care worked. Jeff described me as some sort of high-tech, inflatable Barbie doll toy. He explained that I needed to be hooked up to charge overnight.
Melody grinned at me, “I’m up for a challenge! I’d like to do more than just provide nursing care and keep you alive. I’d like to see you thrive. If you decide to hire me, we can do lots of awesome stuff together. We can drive down to see your parents and grandparents. Other times we can go to the park with Jeff to race remote control cars. Or we can go to the mall to shop at The Children’s Place or Justice. Sometimes we can even do art projects together. I would really love if you could share some of your writing with me!
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