The Choices We Make

The mission trip

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In early June that year I went on a mission trip to a Navajo Reservation in Arizona. Damien couldn't go because he hadn't been coming to church since the last time we had dated and so he hadn't done any fundraising or anything for the trip. Honestly, though, I don't think he would've gone if he could've. His faith was lacking, maybe completely. I wasn't sure. I don't know if I even cared. I was so caught up in him and pleasing him that I barely seemed to have a life that was my own. Everything was done to please Damien. Damien, Damien, Damien. It was always all about him.

I told him before I went to Arizona that I probably wouldn't have very good cell signal and would be working most of the trip, so we wouldn't be able to talk much. He was okay with that and we hardly had any contact at all during the entire week-long trip. While I was at the Navajo reservation I heard a wondeful testimony from the preacher and met some pretty cool Native Americans. However, I didn't really get much out of it other than the fact that I helped other people. I was still ignoring God, and at that time my heart was so hardened that not even seeing friends of mine get saved could melt the ice surrounding my soul. Only God could do that, and I wasn't speaking to him.

What I learned from the mission trip was that I was sick with a disease that crept up on me and tried to drain the life out of me. Since we were eating reservation food, most everything was homemade and organic. However, most everything was also meat-related. I didn't realize how little my caloric intake was. I wasn't paying attention to it, but I should've been eating way more considering how much work we were doing. It just didn't cross my mind that I was getting sick again. On the next to last day while we were traveling to Phoenix to stay at the head pastor's house for the last night, I started feeling terribly nauseous. I couldn't stand the thought of eating and I kept having to go to the bathroom, but by the grace of God the bathroom troubles stopped quickly. Diarrhea plus hours on a school bus equals misery. We went to the Grand Canyon during the trip but I don't remember much about it because I was way too sick to enjoy it. It was beautiful, that's all I remember.

Some of the other kids in my youth group made me eat some french fries when we stopped at a small burger place. I complied, but it certainly didn't make me feel any better. By this time I had burst into tears. My stomach was spasming and felt like it was burning all over. The next day it had subsided a bit and I was fine on the eight-hour flight home. Thank God.

My mom greeted me with a warm hug when she picked me up from the church and she still reminds me to this day of how awful my hair looked when I got back. From then on every time I asked her if my hair looked okay she would reply, "It always looks fine, except for that time you came back from Arizona."

The next day I woke up to a terrible feeling: the cramps were back. They weren't the type of cramping I had experienced before. This was much, much worse. I could hardly breathe and walking was nearly impossible. I managed to cry myself down the stairs and lie down on the couch. I was moaning in pain and I was scared. I had no idea what was wrong with me. Was my appendix rupturing? I didn't think that would feel like this. Your appendix was just on one side, right? Surely it didn't cause all-over burning.

My mom called my dad home from work and they took me to the best hospital around, which was about 45 minutes away from our house. When I got there the ER nurse let me skip ahead of some other patients whose situations weren't as bad as mine. She asked me questions and then another nurse did an ultrasound. She was pretty grouchy and personally I think only people-persons should be nurses. She sent the ultrasound stuff off to the doctor to be read and I was given morphine in my room. It made my head spin and the doctor told me that was what it felt like to be high. Well I wanted no part of that -- I could hardly think straight, and I couldn't walk on my own!

I texted Damien and told him that I was in the hospital.

"What for?" was his reply.

"Some stomach problem. I'm fine though."

"OK."

That was it. Wow, he sure seems concerned, I thought to myself. Some boyfriend.

The real doctor came into the room and told me that I had gastroenteritis. It meant that my stomach was trying to digest itself. It was very hungry. The doctor gave me a disgusted look, "You're malnourished, you need to eat something. If you don't, you're just going to stay sick and end up killing yourself."

I felt so judged. Clearly, the doctor had no patience for hungry teenage girls. Or, at least, I guessed that from the dirty looks he shot me.

After the morphine wore off a little more they let me change out of the hospital gown and into my own clothes. My mom got tears in her eyes. "Honey, I don't want you to get sick again. And I'm really disappointed that the youth leaders didn't call me about this."

My dad just stood there, silent and thinking like usual, but you could usually tell how he felt by his expression. Naturally, he looked concerned, but he let my mom be the voice of reason... or hysteria.

"It wasn't their fault. I'm the one who didn't eat enough."

"You've got to start taking better care of your body."

"I know."

"I just don't want you to end up anorexic, honey."

Too late. "I won't."