[font="times new roman"]*note- the majority of this is written in third person, but it is my story, read through to the end-it clarifies[/font]
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[font="times new roman"]My Unfinished Story of Life[/font]
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[font="times new roman"] “I want to go home,” she said to her sister. She did not tell her why though, she thought she was stronger than that, but she wanted to go home because her stomach was searing with pain. All the way home from California, where she had gone to Church camp, her stomach felt the same way. She was done now, ready to leave and go to the comfort of her own home, hoping in vain that her own bed, her own shower, her own room, would take away this throbbing.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] This hope was in vain. One month passed, and her stomach was pressured by the weight of a bowling ball, or so it felt to her. To her great dismay, and her mother’s, her abilities were limited, as well as her mobility. All day, every day, she sat on the couch, watching re-runs of every show she had, and had not, ever heard of. She watched movies that were old enough to be let out on TV, a great deal of them. She watched juggling matches; all the while, her mind slowly drooping to the state of depression. She watched her sister run around and play dolls, she watched her brother kick the soccer ball outside, she watched her mother prepare various dishes in the kitchen, while she was debilitated by this state of extreme pain. She sat, and lay, and slept, forever trying to find some comfort from this misery that plagued her day and night. But she could find none; she was looking in the wrong place.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] Another month passed. An addition to the family brought some joy into her life, but no comfort from the aching in her gut. The pain bewildered many, even the well-learned doctors at the ER. It bewildered them every time she went to see them, countless times. Memories, unforgettable memories in those ER rooms were made, and she felt she would rather die than experience what she was then.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] More time passed, this time, she did not know how long it was. She had become accustomed to crying herself to sleep at night. She did not know if it was from the pain, or the fact that her life had been put on hold because of the pain. Every day, her mother would ask her, “Are you reading your Bible?” She would falsely answer, “Yes,” wanting to avoid the subject of God.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] God. If God loved her, why was He treating her like this? That is what she thought, that may have been another reason she cried herself to sleep at night.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] One day, she sat on a chair in the playroom, where the couch and TV were, where her life had taken up residence for so long. She sat there, thinking, wondering why. The thoughts turned into emotions, emotions into tears, and she couldn’t hold them back. She was so sick, so sick of being sick. Why was this happening? Why can’t I just feel better, have the strength to get through this? She thought to herself. Much to her dismay, her mother saw her, came and sat next to her.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “Why are you crying?” Sobbing, she kept her head down. Not because she was afraid of her mother seeing her crying, but because she was afraid of her mother finally catching that desperate look in her eyes, the look that said, “I can’t do this anymore.”[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “I don’t know,” she lied.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “Is it because your stomach hurts? Or is it because your sick of your stomach hurting?”[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “Both, I guess,” she shrugged the answer out. Her mom reached over, embraced her in a loving hug that she never thought she would so much appreciate. Thank you mom, she thought, thank you.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] Not long after, at one of her many doctors’ appointments, she found that her pediatrician was at his wits end. He did not know what was wrong. But he thought he knew someone who might.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “I’m going to recommend you to a gastroenterologist. One of them is at Phoenix Children’s, but the wait is 4 months. The other one is in Mesa, and she can see you Thursday.” They picked the doctor who lived an hour away, but could treat her sooner than when she felt she would be buried.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] She dreaded that day, the first doctor appointment at Schenkein’s office. Thoughts paraded her mind. What is she going to look like? What is she going to ask me? Can I keep my clothes on? What is she going to do?[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “We’re going to have to do some tests first, and we’ll send those home with you, but my guess is, is that you have colitis,” the doctor who looked like Edna from The Incredibles said. Schenkein left the room after that. She looked at the floor, didn’t have the slightest clue what colitis was. Ok, well, I’ll take some pills and I’ll be better, this is great, she thought.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] A few days later, she was doing the tests commanded by the doctor, but she was feeling worse than ever. The doctor called, told her not to do the tests, she knew that the results were going to be ineffective. She needed to go to the hospital for the procedure they had talked about. Her mom told her this, and immediately tears of fear and stubbornness came to her eyes.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “No, I don’t want to do that. I’m not going to do that. Anything but that. I’ll keep doing these stupid tests-”[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “You can’t,” her mother coaxed her; “you have to listen.”[/font]
[font="times new roman"] That Friday, she was in the hospital. The procedure was done. Her doctor declared to her parents that she could not go home in the condition she was in. Only half awake, she still heard this, and had never felt more fear in her life. She didn’t want to stay, she wanted to go home. Home was comfortable. It would make her feel better.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] September 10th, 2005, she lay in her hospital bed crying. She had been there for 2 days. It was 10:00 at night. The IV monitor beeped continuously beside her bed. Several minutes passed, but the pain of reality would not go away, and she continued to sob. She had been diagnosed with an illness that would be with her the rest of her life. It would not kill her, but it would always be there. She couldn’t take it. She picked up the phone, now 10:30 PM, and called the only person she could think to call on: her mother. She listened to the rings, hopeful that someone would answer, knowing that everyone was in bed at this time. She sobbed a sigh of relief, her mother answered.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “I can’t do this mom. I can’t do this anymore. Help me,” she said weeping, finally unafraid to show the desperateness she so long had born.[/font]
[font="times new roman"] “Open your Bible,” her mom said quietly, calmly. She did it. “Now go to one of the verses in Isaiah I wrote down for you, Isaiah 43.” She did this too. “Now read it to me.” She read aloud the verses of scripture to her mom, each verse hitting her with a soft blow. She finished reading the verses. She had stopped crying. It’s going to be ok, she thought, God’s going to take care of me. She said good-bye to her mom, and hung up the phone. She lay down on the bed, finally feeling that sense of comfort that she had sought for months. She was in pain, on morphine, but she knew she was going to be ok.[/font]
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[font="times new roman"] This is my story, and I wrote it a little over a year after the last incident took place. What I learned that night was a lesson irreplaceable. I learned that even though I can write, I can type up stories, mine is not my own for the writing. It is God’s. I learned that my story is in God’s hands, it is being typed by the Creator of the heavens Himself. I learned that I will have troubles all my life, but I will be ok. My Savior lives, and because I no longer look in the wrong places for comfort, I know He will always wrap His arms around me.
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