The ride home from the doctor’s appointment at UMASS seemed like a normal car ride that day. I had my usual headache that was about a 7 out of 10 on the pain scale, and was looking forward to going home to sleep. While I was admiring the trees along the highway, something drastically changed. My headache increased in intensity, and it felt like my broken nose was being pushed away from my face. The pressure and pain were so great that I began to hyperventilate in the backseat. The slight nausea that had plagued me before turned into a horrific storm within my stomach. My Dad then hastily pulled over to the side of the highway to help me vomit into a trash bag.
In the back of my mind while I am throwing up in the back seat, weighs visual images of Boston Children’s Hospital’s valet entrance. Within this picture, I can see my Dad’s face full of intensity as he is frustrated with the long line of cars. The fact that my Dad is pulling into the valet means only one thing: something is very wrong. Everytime my family goes to Children’s for an appointment, we always use the parking garage. “We have two legs,” my mom always says. As I slowly walk towards the entrance to the Emergency Room, my shaky legs don’t seem strong enough to hold me.
My mind is jolted back into reality as I hear the garage door opening when we enter my driveway. My mom quickly ushers me into the house, and into my bedroom with a pink barf bucket in tow. My headache has subsided to its normal level again, and as I drift off to sleep my thoughts turn to potential situations: “It could be nothing,” or “What if I have to go in?”
As I fall asleep, my thoughts shift to the latter as I visually replay the familiar routine of “going in”. This involves entering the Emergency Room with my comfy pillow, “little pillow”, and extra socks for comfort. As I visualize the scene in my mind, I can picture the all-too-familiar triage nurses and the probable remarks of, “You’re here AGAIN?” The blood pressure check comes next, while my mom gives the clerk my intake information. I am labeled as an “important patient” and ushered into a triage room. From there, the nurse takes my history and current symptoms. I am quickly brought into Room 23, where the barrage of tests and procedures begin. I am given an IV access so that medications can be delivered. Then residents come in and examine me, subsequently ordering a MRI. After the assessment, my family and I wait for Radiology to call us down. When the time comes for the MRI I am wheeled down there, where Paul my favorite MR tech greets me with a sympathetic smile.
I am suddenly shaken on the shoulder by Mom, and as I realize I am still in my own bed sleeping, she whispers to me saying, “I called Dr. Warf and he said we need to go in.” The initial emotion is fear, but quickly turns into resignation and relief that someone has finally taken the load off my shoulders. I don’t have to make a decision of what to do. My mom has already done that for me. Images of Barb the NP, jump into my head as I think about what that entails. It means surgery, pain, multiple IV’s, Sam from Child Life, and perhaps a PICC Line.
As the van pulls away from my blue house, I look longingly at the place that represents safety. I am at war within myself, terrified to make the leap of driving to Boston, knowing all that it means. Courage for me in this situation is not undergoing brain surgery: that’s relief. Courage, is overriding the fear and mental anguish, acknowledging: HERE WE GO AGAIN.