Walk In Clinic Research Paper

Humans have scars in all sorts of unexpected places. They’re like hidden roadmaps of their personal history, remnants of their old wounds. The scars you bear are the signs of a competitor. I carry my scar everywhere. I think it’s beautiful in a way. It shows what I’ve been through and means the hurt is over and the wound is closed.

It’s quite strange how one day can change your entire life. I was twelve back then and my journey with scoliosis started with a visit to a walk-in clinic. Many changes had occurred in my body when I experienced puberty, and some of those changes were not considered normal. It was in March, 2009 when I discovered that my spine was crooked. My mom was the first one who noticed the unevenness of my shoulder blades

I knew that I would eventually need a back brace, but when the doctor showed me that horrible piece of ugly plastic, it was a whole different story. I turned into a statue. The orthotist who makes the braces showed me an assortment of patterns and designs—floral, butterflies, tie-dye, rainbow, and pink and white stripes. It almost seemed like I was shopping for a prom dress. Choosing the design of a back brace is like picking your own poison based on how pretty the bottle looks like. I chose the flesh-colored brace, the most inconspicuous of them all. It looked like a mannequin with its legs, arms, and head chopped off. Three thick straps with metal fasteners were bolted to the back to keep me inside. When I first tried it on, I felt like I was strapped in a corset; the air escaping my lungs. I was instructed to wear that plastic cage for about twenty-three hours every single day until my seventeenth birthday. Every time I wear the brace, I feel like a turtle flipped on its shell. I wore my back brace to school, to the mall, and to sleep each night. The hard plastic dug into my ribs and beneath my backbones, leaving my body with tiny scars and bruises. In a few months, I became frustrated and ashamed with having to wear it all the time. I love the feeling of my body being free, but sometimes it feels so foreign without the hard plastic shell wrapped around

The idea of surgery didn’t scare me. On the other hand, living with a problem that hindered my everyday functioning and made me feel insecure was a far scarier reality. The surgery finally took place on July 1st, 2013. It was six o’clock in the morning. I was sitting in what will be my home for the next week. I was all smiles, calm, and collected. It wasn’t until my mom said her goodbye that I started to tear up. I was transported to a big room full of specialists and nurses. All of them were dressed in blue scrubs. The last moment I could remember before my mind and body dozed off was the faint smell of medicine and a soft jazz music playing in the background. Despite everything, those six hours on the operation table ended up being the best sleep of my