Anxious

     "Gena, come on, wake up. We have to go," I heard, jolting me out of the dark abyss that was sleep.
What? Where am I going? There's no school, right? I thought.

     The date dawned on me, evoking panic within. It was the twelfth of June. The day my life was set to change.

     I had been diagnosed with Chiari Malformation, a disorder that had made my brain too big four years prior. I had to have this surgery to stop the pounding headaches and complete lack of feeling below my waist. I knew this was for the best, but that didn't mean I wanted to do it.
     

     "Why, Mom? Don't make me go" I pleaded.

     "We have no choice, hun," my mother's voice wavered. "You have to do this to get better."

     I climbed out of bed with a mouth full of cotton. I dressed and went downstairs to what I felt was my impending demise. I floated through that morning, wanting to disappear.
When we left, I climbed in the car without so much as a word. That ride to the Children's Hospital was the longest hour of my life. The sharp scent of Vicks. The muted music I didn't listen to. My growling stomach sending tremors through the air.
A knot of hysteria grew inside my gut leaving no room for the previous night's dinner. I tried to warn Mom, but the vomit arrived in my mouth. The taste of my stomach fluid made me retch again, adding chunky, bitter liquid to the lot. My regurgitated dinner fell upon just my lap and its contents. My white teddy, holding its heart for all to see, was now a volatile shade of orange. The eucalyptus was gone when I needed it, its comforting aroma masked by the putrid odor of a half-eaten dinner.

     I sat in a pool of vomit the rest of the way to the hospital, trying not to barf again as the panic built and the stench clogged my throat. We pulled into the colossal, grey parking garage and placed the sodden blanket and bear in a bag before our tredge to the waiting room.

     We sat in silence, my eyes falling on a magazine cover saying, "Smile," and two children doing so. This felt ironic to me: I'm was waiting for my head and neck to be torn apart, and yet those children had the brightest smiles. 

     "Gena Byrnes?" quizzed the nurse. She led me into a chilly, tan room the last place I'd see until that evening.

     I changed into a drafty, blue gown that made my skin itch and goosebump. I sterilized every centimeter of my pale, dry, skin with the damp, sticky body wipes. Then I took a shot of nasty medicine to knock me out. Dad came in and tried to make me laugh, but it wasn't until the medication hit that I so much as smiled. A woman with pale blonde hair came into my room as I was sitting in the bed drowsily. She was there to calm me down and show me the surgical tools. 

     

     "That makes a lot of sense, right?" I thought, "You tell me to calm down right before shoving the tools that will cut me open in my face."  Then Dr. Ikandar came in to get me ready. While he was there, he drew a purple, cartoon cat on my shoulder. That sweet little kitten made me smile. Dad continued to try and tell me jokes, but even now, I can't remember any of the jokes that Dad told me. I must have been high as a kite.  Not long after the doctor left the room, I was welcomed into the gentle arms of slumber. 

(A/N) Yes, I am aware that this is a big suck. I apologize. Please forgive me for being a sucky teenage writer. Thanks a bunch! -G