I woke up during the witching hour, whatever that is, like two or three in the morning I suppose. I had the worst stomach pain ever, only it was really up high, almost in my chest. Since I was having chest pains, and since my father had already had a heart attack by this time, I woke my mom and told her I was having a heart attack. I really believed this. I was ten.
My mom brought me back to my room and told me I probably wasn’t having a heart attack. She had me point to where my pain was and then brought the trash can closer when I announced I was going to barf. And I did. Then she had me brush my teeth and go back to bed. She gave me half of an Ativan to help me sleep. I am surprised she did that because a day or two before she told me I looked yellow.
It was an afternoon, and mom was home, so it must have been a Saturday or Sunday. I was on the living room floor, coloring and watching TV. My mom was sitting on the loveseat and asked me to walk over to her, where the light was brighter. She grabbed my chin and moved my face around, and said, “That’s weird. You looked kind of yellow.” That was it. I guess I didn’t look THAT yellow. I wasn’t really feeling bad at that point. So, mom and I just went on doing our thing. Mom was reading the Enquirer and I was coloring. Neither one of us thought there was anything wrong with me until I started having “heart attack” pains.
After mom gave me the Ativan, I went back to sleep and woke up the next morning feeling pretty normal. That morning was the fourth of July. So, I didn’t have to go to school and mom didn’t have to go to work. We decided to go out to breakfast at our favorite place – Wags. Wags was this cute Denny’s kind of place that had the most delicious breakfasts. On this particular morning, I decided to order French Toast and bacon. Now that I’m a grown-up, and understand what I had going on health-wise, I know that bacon was just as bad of an idea as Ativan.
I wolfed down that greasy bacon. I loved it. I felt OK for a bit after eating it until we got to the grocery store. Back then mom and I shopped at Pantry Pride. It was an average-sized grocery store. We were almost done with our shopping. In fact, we were on the last aisle, the frozen foods aisle. Mom had just put some sort of frozen Salisbury steak dinner in the cart when I announced that my heart attack had returned.
My mom turned to look at me and asked, “Is this a heart attack where I can finish shopping and take the groceries home, or is this the kind of heart attack where we leave the cart right here and head to the hospital?” I chose option B. I was in horrible pain and I felt like I would throw up again. True to her word, mom left the full cart right there, grabbed her purse, and grabbed my hand. Off we went to get in mom’s big, green, rusty car.
We got down the street to Memorial Hospital within five minutes or so. Mom and I walked into the ER and she told them I was having chest pains and that my father had a heart attack recently. They got me in a bed quickly and hooked me up to an EKG machine. That was a little uncomfortable because the gel they use with the electrodes is cold. Also, I was just starting puberty, so I was embarrassed when they started putting electrodes on my chest.
It only got more uncomfortable from there. Once, they determined that I was not having a heart attack, the other tests started. My pain gradually got worse, too.
The hospital staff put me in a room with three other patients and their moms. I don’t remember what was wrong with all the other girls, except for one. She ate her uncle’s lithium because it looked like M and M candies. She ate like a whole bottle of it. They were able to pump her stomach and she ended up being fine. I bet her uncle kept his pills somewhere safer after that.
At the age of ten, I wasn’t familiar with medical testing, and it was pure torture. They closed the curtain around my bed while they inserted an IV, took blood from my arm, gave me an enema, and did assorted other tortuous tests to me all while telling my mom, “We can’t give her anything for the pain because we don’t know what she has.”
Holy hell! One of the other moms in the room felt sorry for me and taught me Lamaze breathing. She explained to me that Lamaze was something that pregnant women did when they were in labor to deal with the pain. She had me stare at the blinking light on my IV and breath slowly. It actually worked for a bit. I stopped doing Lamaze when the fireworks started, though. I had to wheel my IV over to the window to see them.
The worst test they did to me was some sort of kidney test. The technicians had me lay on a metal table and they injected a huge amount of fluid into my IV. Then, when my bladder was full, they started scanning my abdomen. They pushed down hard with whatever machine they were using. I don’t think it was an x-ray, but I can’t be certain. It was torture. When they were finally done, they let me go to the bathroom. Sweet relief! One of the techs told me she was proud of me for not peeing on the table. She told me that some grownups had peed themselves during this test. I can see why. And this torturous test was for nothing. My kidneys were fine.
I’m not sure which test finally gave them actual results, but the doctors finally figured out what was wrong with me. I had hepatitis A. We were told that I could have caught it anywhere, possibly in a restaurant. Basically, if someone has hepatitis A and uses the bathroom and doesn’t wash their hands, they can pass it on by touching food or other items. Gross, right? Mom immediately thought it had to be from Maryjane’s house. While I have no proof, I don’t disagree with her.
Once they figured out what I had, they let me start eating again. First, it was just broth and Jello. Then, other bland foods were added. Finally, on my last day in the hospital, I was allowed to order food from the menu. Only, since they were sending me home, I wasn’t going to be able to eat dinner. I was really disappointed because I have always been a hungry little chubby person. So, they let me stay until after dinner so I could eat lamb and mint jelly. I have never eaten that again.
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