We finally make it there. It feels funny being the one admitted into the hospital. We park along the curb instead of in one of the parking decks. I’m desiring sleep more than ever now. A man slowly gets me a wheel chair. I want him to hurry. We go through the lobby of the big children’s hospital. It’s just like I remembered it from last time. Colorful and playful, like the children’s theatre a couple blocks away. But the last time I was here, visiting a friend, I would have laughed in your face if you had told me that the next time I came here would be for me. Because I would be sick. I never thought I would have to stay here. But here I am.
The receptionists and a few people in the lobby stare at me as we hurry past. Do I really look that bad? What DO I look like? I know I probably look horrible- I hadn’t showered in days, I had my rattiest sweat pants on, and I don’t even remember brushing my hair that morning. We ride up in the elevator- I’m glad no one else is on with us. We finally get to a room. But it lacks what I want most- a bed. It takes them awhile to find one, so I wait wearily on the little couch in the room. I just want to sleep. I finally get in bed. Daddy comes. He holds my hand as they stick me again and again- first with an insulin drip, then taking blood. After that a rather loud, curly-haired, funny looking man comes in. He’s the doctor. He talks for what seems like a long time, but it’s only about 10 minutes. I don’t even remember what he says. I just know he keeps saying something like, “It’s going to be a big adjustment” or “It’s not going to be fun” or something negative like that. I wonder why he keeps saying that- I thought doctors were supposed to comfort. The lights in the room are too bright. I just want to sleep. In my own bed. At home. In my dark, familiar room. Not here. Not here where it’s busy and bright and machines keep beeping. Not here.