Step One: Cope with pain, and tell yourself that the school nurse knows what she’s talking about.
Step Two: After five years of this, tell your mom that it’s too much. Tell her that you cannot hide it with Ibuprofen, that you cannot hear another teacher say its your hair in your eyes, and that you need to go to the doctor.
Step Three: Get a cat scan. Take out you’re little sparkly stud earrings and take some deep breaths. Try not to think in your little eleven year old mind that this ring of white metal looks like a monster from the sci-fi show you watch at your dads house on the weekends. Casually and childishly-not knowing you do it to cope with fear-ask your doctor what C. A. T. stands for. Be told they don’t know and seriously question their credibility as a doctor-keep it to yourself though, they don’t like that. Lay on a drawer with that creepy little foam triangle under your knew and close your eyes while the monster swallows you.
Step Four: Be left out of the loop. Watch your mom, who tells you everything, speak in hushed tones with your doctor.
Step Five: Assume the worst. Surely, it is fatal. Why such secrecy, and as the absolute worst pain you’ve ever known, worry about what showed up on that brain scan. Be told its probably nothing, and sent to another doctor, with another monster.
Step Six-not to be skipped: Drink your first ever Burgerville pumpkin milkshake, which is divine, and only around because this is your favorite time of year and for once you aren’t enjoying it. Don’t consider the action for a moment.
Step Seven: Find out you need surgery. Nothing fatal, mind you, but something that could escalate. Something that rubs away at your skull, behind your eye, and ask over and over what this is called because it is NOT a tumor and you are NOT going to die, even though it is eating away at you. Downplay it to other kids. No one wants to hear it. It’s gross. And weird. And kids are cruel.
Step Eight: tell your teachers-who rolled their eyes at you even though you never broke a rule, colored neatly in the lines of the map, and did your cursive practice-that you will be out of school. Consider, but not for too long, how this plays into the grand scheme of things. If you miss two years of your fifth grade school year, maybe you can’t get into the school of your dreams- Vancouver school of Arts and Academics? And then maybe you can’t go on to the Art Institute, and be a rich and famous artist who donates money to children’s hospital. Don’t consider the irony. You have years to appreciate that in your writing.
Step Nine: Go to the hospital. Think that the smell is an unappealing assault to the senses you will never forget.
Step Ten: Have surgery. Try not to worry as the mask sucks air from your lungs, and you surely know this is the feeling of suffocation, you’ll probably wake up.
Step Eleven: Wake up from general anesthesia. Find your concerned mom waiting for you with a present. A movie title “Help”, based on your favorite Beatles song. Drink apple juice instead of puking, and cry a little if you need to.
Step Twelve: Recover at home with your family. Lay on the couch eating ice cream and watching Viva Piniata, very much amused by the dark humor there, while your peers learn long division. Be prepared for that to plague you in high school.
Step Thirteen: Go back to school. Have it seem foreign, like an alien planet, surrounded by kids who never got you, asking to see your scars.
Step Fourteen: Apply to VSAA, or whatever school you are destined to go to. Don’t get in. Be offered no real consolation for why, but know it is because little girls with poor attendance don’t go to fancy schools with lots of money that looks great on college applications, they go to schools with dress codes.
Step Fifteen: Accept that this is not the end of your life. It is an opportunity. Make a new friend in your first week of school, give her an annoying nickname(You know it Meshie) and lear that she is as disappointed as you are. You are not going to a school with multiple buildings or huge black and white flags, but you are still surrounded by talent. This does not control where you go to college, or where you wind up in life, and thinking that is completely nonsensical. YOU are still YOU.
Step Sixteen: Go to the doctor if something hurts, but, move on from this experience. Bond with people who do not know any of this, and let them know you. Not the little girl who isn’t eaten by monsters and wakes up from general anesthesia.
Step Two: After five years of this, tell your mom that it’s too much. Tell her that you cannot hide it with Ibuprofen, that you cannot hear another teacher say its your hair in your eyes, and that you need to go to the doctor.
Step Three: Get a cat scan. Take out you’re little sparkly stud earrings and take some deep breaths. Try not to think in your little eleven year old mind that this ring of white metal looks like a monster from the sci-fi show you watch at your dads house on the weekends. Casually and childishly-not knowing you do it to cope with fear-ask your doctor what C. A. T. stands for. Be told they don’t know and seriously question their credibility as a doctor-keep it to yourself though, they don’t like that. Lay on a drawer with that creepy little foam triangle under your knew and close your eyes while the monster swallows you.
Step Four: Be left out of the loop. Watch your mom, who tells you everything, speak in hushed tones with your doctor.
Step Five: Assume the worst. Surely, it is fatal. Why such secrecy, and as the absolute worst pain you’ve ever known, worry about what showed up on that brain scan. Be told its probably nothing, and sent to another doctor, with another monster.
Step Six-not to be skipped: Drink your first ever Burgerville pumpkin milkshake, which is divine, and only around because this is your favorite time of year and for once you aren’t enjoying it. Don’t consider the action for a moment.
Step Seven: Find out you need surgery. Nothing fatal, mind you, but something that could escalate. Something that rubs away at your skull, behind your eye, and ask over and over what this is called because it is NOT a tumor and you are NOT going to die, even though it is eating away at you. Downplay it to other kids. No one wants to hear it. It’s gross. And weird. And kids are cruel.
Step Eight: tell your teachers-who rolled their eyes at you even though you never broke a rule, colored neatly in the lines of the map, and did your cursive practice-that you will be out of school. Consider, but not for too long, how this plays into the grand scheme of things. If you miss two years of your fifth grade school year, maybe you can’t get into the school of your dreams- Vancouver school of Arts and Academics? And then maybe you can’t go on to the Art Institute, and be a rich and famous artist who donates money to children’s hospital. Don’t consider the irony. You have years to appreciate that in your writing.
Step Nine: Go to the hospital. Think that the smell is an unappealing assault to the senses you will never forget.
Step Ten: Have surgery. Try not to worry as the mask sucks air from your lungs, and you surely know this is the feeling of suffocation, you’ll probably wake up.
Step Eleven: Wake up from general anesthesia. Find your concerned mom waiting for you with a present. A movie title “Help”, based on your favorite Beatles song. Drink apple juice instead of puking, and cry a little if you need to.
Step Twelve: Recover at home with your family. Lay on the couch eating ice cream and watching Viva Piniata, very much amused by the dark humor there, while your peers learn long division. Be prepared for that to plague you in high school.
Step Thirteen: Go back to school. Have it seem foreign, like an alien planet, surrounded by kids who never got you, asking to see your scars.
Step Fourteen: Apply to VSAA, or whatever school you are destined to go to. Don’t get in. Be offered no real consolation for why, but know it is because little girls with poor attendance don’t go to fancy schools with lots of money that looks great on college applications, they go to schools with dress codes.
Step Fifteen: Accept that this is not the end of your life. It is an opportunity. Make a new friend in your first week of school, give her an annoying nickname(You know it Meshie) and lear that she is as disappointed as you are. You are not going to a school with multiple buildings or huge black and white flags, but you are still surrounded by talent. This does not control where you go to college, or where you wind up in life, and thinking that is completely nonsensical. YOU are still YOU.
Step Sixteen: Go to the doctor if something hurts, but, move on from this experience. Bond with people who do not know any of this, and let them know you. Not the little girl who isn’t eaten by monsters and wakes up from general anesthesia.