It's the middle of the night. I'm laying in a hospital bed, going into panic mode. Am I dying? I can’t be dying. I’m here to get back to being healthy. Is this IV killing me? No, this IV is going to help me breathe better.
I try not to think about the fact that a foreign liquid is being pumped through my body right now, especially something that’s supposed to be stronger and better than the pills I usually take when I’m sick. How can something be stronger than those wicked little pills that give me insomnia, weird moods and serious stomach aches? I don’t know, but it scares me so I don't think about it. I’ve done this before and survived. No big deal. This is normal. A lot of people have gone through much worse than this. I just need to get through the night. Everything will feel better in the morning.
It’s time to get my PICC line put in my arm. I don’t want to be put under anesthesia for the procedure because I like being aware of what’s going on and I hate waking up from anesthesia because I tend to freak out when I come-to. I decide to stay awake for the PICC line placement. I’m nervous as I feel the surgeon spreading some sort of numbing cream onto my arm, then feel something cold against my skin. I watch the x-ray panels as the surgeon threads the tube up my artery through my shoulder. I can feel it slinking though my vein — while I’m still scared, the whole process seems interesting and I become more curious than frightened.
I’m stuck in a small room for the next five days and I'm not allowed to step out of the room except to do testing. My window isn’t even a window — it looks over the open ER waiting room about seven floors below. If I angle my head right, I can see sunlight through a very distant window toward the entrance. That glimpse of sunlight is all I have of the outside world for five days; a world that isn’t filled with the smell of alcohol wipes.
I try not to think about the medicine while it’s coursing through my body, and I try not to focus on the air bubbles floating in occasionally. I can taste the saline that’s flushed into my body after the medicine is done. I know how to flush the IV by myself, but the nurse does everything while I’m in the hospital. I feel so helpless, weak and fragile. As much as I love being independent, I’m glad that Mom is here with me. Knowing there's someone nearby helps me stay calm, especially at night.
Night is the worst. I try to sleep but it’s so hard. I break down crying, but thankfully Mom is asleep so she doesn’t hear me. I text my friend; she’s really good at helping me calm down when I panic. She calms me down with a few sentences and keeps talking to me until I fall asleep.
I’m finally going home. I’ll have to self administer IV antibiotics to myself for the next three weeks, but it’ll be OK. I’ll be going into school late every day, so that’s a plus I guess. My arm will be wrapped up so no one can see the IV port in my bicep, but I don’t mind that — I feel like I should have a physical wound to show for all the pain I’ve gone through. I have to wear a mask to walk out of the hospital, which makes me feel self-conscious because I can feel everyone looking at me. I get out into the parking lot and rip the mask off my face. My troubles aren’t over, but I can see the light. Literally, I can see the sunlight for the first time in days and sunlight makes me happy on any day. We pull out of the parking lot and into the streets of Philadelphia. The busy life around me starts to make me feel like a normal person again. None of these people know I was just in the hospital — to them, I’m just another girl. And for once, the idea of being just another typical girl makes me happy.
It’s hard to share this because I don’t want people to judge me based on my condition. But there are people my age who are dying and giving everything they’ve got to bring awareness to Cystic Fibrosis, so why should I sit here in my relatively healthy body and not try to make a difference?
