My dad’s arms were wrapped firmly around me as he held me while talking to the lady at the desk at the entrance to the pediatric emergency room. About twenty minutes earlier I had passed out in an elevator on the way out of Dr. Monroe’s office. The vampire lady in her lab had just sucked out her usual four tubes of blood from the crook of my arm. When she was done she gave me a unicorn sticker, and I stepped into the elevator. The next thing I remembered being aware of was my dad leaning over me yelling my name in a panic. He had picked me up in his arms like a baby, not the ten-year-old girl I was, and carried me out to the car. I didn’t fully wake up until we were racing down the turnpike toward the hospital.
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?”
I was in and out the whole ride to the hospital. Vaguely, I remember the EMT in back with me placing an oxygen mask over my face and calling in report. Some parts of the report stuck with me, like when he said I was” alert and oriented”. I could barely catch their words because I couldn’t stay conscious the whole ride down there. Another part I caught was when he said my heart rate which was around 165 was my baseline. He claimed that my oxygen levels were 95% on room air, but I was on 3 L of oxygen. Then he ended the report by stating that I was well-known to their facility. My medical PTSD began revving up at this point.
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