Weak, frail, tired-these are all common adjectives of a person that’s sick. But I am not common, and neither was my type of illness: pulmonary embolism, the medical term for blood clots in the lungs. The vessels in which I need to breathe were compromised. Taking breaths so shallow, so unsatisfying, so painful, that it became a chore. At one point it became so much of a chore that I just wanted to stop. Chauffeured in an ambulance to Children's Medical Center, a fleet of doctors stood at the doors of my single room awaiting my arrival. “Sixteen year old female with PE in the right lung” were the only words exchanged between them. And that was me; at age sixteen, just starting high school as a junior, I was diagnosed with a life threatening illness. Paramedics carted me into the pediatric ICU on a stretcher and was then subjected to an entire night of poking and prodding. Doctors and nurses came and went and exchanged what they knew and what they could predict for me. Physical therapy was discussed to prevent any more clotting in my limbs, and prevent the existing clots from moving to my heart because I would be required to stay …show more content…
I turned to my mother who was sitting on a chair beside my hospital bed and told her “There is no need and no time to be upset. What’s done is done, and now it’s time to heal.”. She started to cry, and so did I. Days past and the pain continued and so did the anxiety; I needed to know what was going to happen to me, but I didn’t. I met with my team of doctors daily and they updated me on how we would proceed in my treatment but before they started any discussion of that they absolutely needed to ask why I was awake at seven o’clock in the morning during hospital rounds and how I could possibly have as much of a smile and as positive an attitude as I did while facing what I