The Courage of Children: Boston and Beyond XXX

Emily Welborne
Independent
Charlotte, NC
I had a physical exam for fourth grade. The doctor said, “Touch your toes,”
and began to run a hand down my spine. “It looks like you have a case
of scoliosis.”
I was ten years old. I thought, I’m going to die.
The nurse took me to this dark room. There were no lights. All I could see
was this bed, and it sounded like a big motor.
The nurse smiled. She said, “This is called an x-ray. I promise it’s not going
to hurt you.”
I hadn’t remembered ever having an x-ray before. I closed my eyes as I put
my back to the board.
A few minutes later, we got the pictures back. The nurse gave me two
numbers: twenty-six and thirty-three. These were the degrees of my curves.
They said that scoliosis is simply a spine that has curves to it, instead of being
straight. Sco-lee-oh-sis. I couldn’t pronounce it.
“Looking at your x-rays…,” and before the doctor could finish, I stopped him
and said, “I know. I need surgery.” And the doctor nodded. I hung my head
and started to cry. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to accept it. I sat staring
at the popsicle sticks and cotton swabs.
Everything was still dark. The second floor felt haunted almost. All the lights
seemed to be off, and it was very quiet. The air was freezing, and it smelled
like old wood.
I remember shaking because I was so scared. Putting on the hospital gown,
the silver blanket, and the hospital hat, I knew that was it. They were going
to cut me open.
The doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists wrote on my spine with a Sharpie.
They came in one by one, used hand-sanitizer, and introduced themselves.
My family said goodbye. The childcare nurse stayed by my side. They wheeled
me into the OR, which was cold and quiet. I recalled the sound of packages
opening. Those are my rods. Then paper ripping. The screws.
They transferred me from the bed to the operating table. The bright light
was blinding.
The Courage of Children: Boston and Beyond
104