A memory.
During the year I attended 9th grade, I was in unstoppable agony. And every day it got worse. As a present for graduating 8th grade, I received food poisoning during a graduation outing. The gift shredded my digestive system and left it irrevocably damaged. At first I was only a little sick, but as time drew on the pain intensified. By the end of my 9th grade year, I was in so much pain that I had to maintain consciousness through sheer will power. I went to so many doctors for so many years...
The tests I endured ranged from uncomfortable, to disgusting, to torturous. During one particularly bad test, I came closer to passing out than I can describe. The pain was exquisite. My entire body went numb and stars filled my vision. I was forced to stand up, making wakefulness nearly impossible. The entire test I am essentially naked, and my father is nearly crying as he is forced to watch me writhe and moan in torment. I have no idea how long the test actually lasted, but I do know the pain did not end with the conclusion of the test. For at least an hour afterward my insides were on fire. Even so, I put on my clothes and slowly walked out of the hospital and to the family car.
The results of the test came back negative. Knowing that I endured the terribleness of the test for no diagnosis made the situation that much worse. In science you are taught that a false result is still useful data. I understood that even back then. Still... the pain endured continues to haunt me to this day. I cannot bring myself to say it helped.
Ninth grade... Most teenagers in that grade are trying to shape their personality and become their own people. Most teenagers are trying to fit in, have fun, and get through their studies. I was trying to survive being tortured.
Sadly, things just got worse as the years past.
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Friday, August 13, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A Piece of Me
I could describe myself in detail, or even show a picture. However, I do not feel that accurately portrays who I am. No little post can achieve that. I am no cliche, nor meme, nor simple man. The best I can do to convey who I am is to share with you a memory. One that is dear to me. Maybe then you can see just a small corner of the person behind the text.
This is a piece of me.
As a boy growing up in Montana I naturally enjoyed sledding in the winter months. My friends shared this sentiment. We often got together and marched high into the wooded hills of our backyards in search of the perfect slope. Perfect, in our eyes, simply meant no rocks or trees, and maybe if we were lucky some type of jump near the bottom. During one specific winter we almost succeeded in our hunt. Almost.
Two friends and I were about a mile from one of our houses and decided that the hill we found was perfect for a long, fast, sled ride. We hiked up to the peak of the slope, sleds towed behind, and prepared ourselves for the ride. My friends went first, both having a great time descending. My turn.
I jumped on my sled and began to accelerate. Soon I was going faster than I was comfortable with and the sled began to lose control. Thinking quickly I attempted to steer the sled into a slower incline. I failed. The sled tipped over, throwing me out. My body hit the snow, penetrating the small layer of fresh precipitation. My knee struck a stone hidden below and ripped a giant hole in my pants. Luckily by then I was frozen from the long trek to the hill and only felt the impact. I rolled for a time, and then finally stopped.
My friends were laughing playfully as they walked towards me. It was then that I noticed my torn pants and a growing discoloration around the area. I inspected the damage and found a massive gash covering most of my kneecap and blood was flowing steadily from the wound. My friends stopped laughing and decided the best plan of action was to use the sled as a makeshift stretcher for the mile journey to my friend's house. The hill quickly became too bumpy for this to work. So, not yet feeling any pain because of the cold, I grabbed a glove full of snow, jammed it on my destroyed knee, and began walking. I was struck by the humor of being a human strawberry snowcone machine.
About half way to safety the pain began. Even the snow was unable to stop it. Since I had no choice, I kept walking. The bleeding steadily got worse and worse until finally we reached the house. My friend's mother took our her tiny first aid kid and attempted to dress the wound. We tore the leg of my pants off and I could see how drenched my pants, shoes, and socks were. Red everywhere. My family was called, and I was taken to the ER.
This was the first time getting stitches, and it was an odd experience. After only 9 stitches I was released from the hospital with a huge bandage over my leg. I was told that I could not bend my knee for 3 weeks or else I would reopen the wound. I can tell you from experience: knees are important. Walking up stairs with 1 peg leg is rough!
Through all of this, even as a boy, I didn't cry or complain. I just did what I had to do because there was no other option.
This is a piece of me.
As a boy growing up in Montana I naturally enjoyed sledding in the winter months. My friends shared this sentiment. We often got together and marched high into the wooded hills of our backyards in search of the perfect slope. Perfect, in our eyes, simply meant no rocks or trees, and maybe if we were lucky some type of jump near the bottom. During one specific winter we almost succeeded in our hunt. Almost.
Two friends and I were about a mile from one of our houses and decided that the hill we found was perfect for a long, fast, sled ride. We hiked up to the peak of the slope, sleds towed behind, and prepared ourselves for the ride. My friends went first, both having a great time descending. My turn.
I jumped on my sled and began to accelerate. Soon I was going faster than I was comfortable with and the sled began to lose control. Thinking quickly I attempted to steer the sled into a slower incline. I failed. The sled tipped over, throwing me out. My body hit the snow, penetrating the small layer of fresh precipitation. My knee struck a stone hidden below and ripped a giant hole in my pants. Luckily by then I was frozen from the long trek to the hill and only felt the impact. I rolled for a time, and then finally stopped.
My friends were laughing playfully as they walked towards me. It was then that I noticed my torn pants and a growing discoloration around the area. I inspected the damage and found a massive gash covering most of my kneecap and blood was flowing steadily from the wound. My friends stopped laughing and decided the best plan of action was to use the sled as a makeshift stretcher for the mile journey to my friend's house. The hill quickly became too bumpy for this to work. So, not yet feeling any pain because of the cold, I grabbed a glove full of snow, jammed it on my destroyed knee, and began walking. I was struck by the humor of being a human strawberry snowcone machine.
About half way to safety the pain began. Even the snow was unable to stop it. Since I had no choice, I kept walking. The bleeding steadily got worse and worse until finally we reached the house. My friend's mother took our her tiny first aid kid and attempted to dress the wound. We tore the leg of my pants off and I could see how drenched my pants, shoes, and socks were. Red everywhere. My family was called, and I was taken to the ER.
This was the first time getting stitches, and it was an odd experience. After only 9 stitches I was released from the hospital with a huge bandage over my leg. I was told that I could not bend my knee for 3 weeks or else I would reopen the wound. I can tell you from experience: knees are important. Walking up stairs with 1 peg leg is rough!
Through all of this, even as a boy, I didn't cry or complain. I just did what I had to do because there was no other option.
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