Stitches of the Heart

Part I

It was an ordinary Friday afternoon. The sun was still up but ready to set. Winds blew in every direction making the grasses sway and the leaves pluck out of their branches. I should be running around the play ground playing with the other children. I should be bullying the first graders while waiting for my parents to pick me up. But instead, I was sitting on my trolley bag, bent with my head on my knees, and my hands tightly clasped on my belly. Waiting for my parents felt like forever. It seemed as though they have forgotten that they have an eight-year old daughter who needs to be fetched.

It was past 5 when they finally arrived. As soon as my father reached where I was sitting, I stood up sluggishly, still holding my belly. I tried walking normally for him not to notice that there was something wrong with me. When I got in to the car, I let go a loud wail. It felt like I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My mother who was sitting at the back seat looked at me with confusion and weariness.

“What’s wrong with you?” My mother yelled, but her voice was filled with anxiety and tension.

When my father was already on the driver’s seat, his hands on the steering wheel, I explained what I have been experiencing since past lunch. My abdomen was churning with extreme pain and it goes stronger as time passed by. There was a searing pain inside my belly and it crawls from left to right, from wherever in my stomach to wherever it wanted to hurt me.

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I was praying. I was eight but I understand the power of prayers. Each minute, I prayed for the pain to stop and each minute I was waiting for it to happen. But it didn’t. I was lying on the couch and it was 3 in the morning. My mother was preparing some clothes, ready to bring me to the nearest clinic. It was past 7, however, after my father has returned home from work, I was brought to the hospital.

My father was carrying me in his arms for I couldn’t walk any more. I haven’t even eaten anything for my appetite has left me. Upon entering the clinic of a voluptuous, wavy-haired pediatrician, she let me lie flat on the bed. She placed her stethoscope on my chest, moving it in motions. Minutes have passed and she was hysterically calling her assistants, asking them to call another doctor – a surgeon as what I’ve heard. She was explaining something to my parents but I was too weak to process everything. One thing was for sure, I needed to undergo an operation as soon as possible.

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I was now lying outside the operating room. I know for a fact that I will be operated soon enough but I didn’t know it’d be this quick. I had no idea that tonight would be that moment. My mother was standing by my side, holding my hands.

“Mom,” I whispered.

“Yes, my dear,” tears were streaking on her face and I don’t know why.

“I don’t want to get married when I got older,” I said weakly.

“Oh, why would you say that?” My mom asked.

“’Cause it’s painful to bore a child. I might even be operated because of that,” I tried so hard to sound bold. My mom was now sobbing, tears were flowing in her eyes. I believe she didn’t know at that moment that I knew I would undergo an operation.

A nurse came cutting our conversation. She was holding a kit in her hands and held out an injection. She prepared something and sure enough, it was nearing towards my dextrose.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s an anesthesia. It’s a like a pain killer so you won’t feel anything,” the nurse smiled.