“Two Paths” by Olivia Tarrer, 19
The beeping taunts me. It seems to know that a fever of 101 degrees or greater means immediate care and an overnight stay for those with my genotype. The perpetual beeps seem in tune with my pounding heart as I look down at the thermometer anxiously waiting for it to tell me my fate. As these rhythmic mockings come and go with no answer, I look over to the pile of books, mounds of flashcards, and stacks of practice sheets I amalgamated over the months to prepare for my test tomorrow when the beeping stops. Slowly, I turn my head to find that my fortune was read: I am not going to take that test.
The following hours are flash floods of hurried movements towards the familiar stinging smell of sterilization. Over the years I have adjusted to the spontaneous nature that comes with sickled cells. My blood seemed deliberate in its planning of when to strike. Without miss, it would aim its episodes of searing pain at any event of importance to me.
Nurses break the stark white silence of the room pulling in large carts as they clink and clank in protest. Each takes turns inspecting my arm with icy force before finding the “good vein” yet to be defaced like the track mark-ridden streaks surrounding it. Finally, they flick the needle, shove it into my skin, and watch as my misshapen blood drains into neat, cylindrical bottles while I shrivel up, sinking into the hospital bed.
The room falls silent when the last nurse leaves me to slip in and out of consciousness. Despite my dazed state, lucid recollections of limping into my driver's permit test surface. With my heart set on passing, I ignored the stabbing pains of acute hip agglutination while identifying road signs. My time at school comes next. I watch myself smile through dehydration and painful flare-ups in an attempt not to clue my classmates in on my struggles.
Blood disorders do not wave a red flag warning every passer-by of the effect on its host. I have Sickle Cell Disease. Its presence is silent, invisible, and only seen by those experiencing it. Every encounter demands an immediate decision from me. I must either be the sole perpetrator of my failure or the single person responsible for my success. This day and every day, I choose success.
The hospital doors open welcoming a crowd of specialists.
Delirious from the cocktail of one part fever and one part crystalline fluid spiked with a healthy dose of morphine, I slur pleas with the doctors to bend protocol. As each refuses insisting that I stay for continued monitoring, I feel my determination rise. Once again, I cannot back down.
“How are you feeling?” The third doctor asks.
I dodge the question, regurgitating tales of textbooks and thermometers while he assesses. He takes an excruciatingly long look at my charts before coming to a verdict that sounds like music to my ears… “Home Health”.
Success is synonymous with freedom, and freedom for me is spending the remainder of this night welcoming kind healthcare professionals into my home. They link tubes from my wrist into a backpack filled with fluids as I return to my books, flashcards, and practice sheets.
I feel a sense of accomplishment as I stride into the testing center to take the Scholastic Assessment Test the following morning. Still in pain, I fill out answer sheets as a testament to no longer being defined, despondent, or derailed by this disorder.
This experience laid two paths before me. Looking down at the head of the crossroad, I saw myself surrendering to my diagnosis or persevering and gaining tools to do it again- daily. From that day on I chose the latter. Sickle Cell may strike its painful rage without regard, but I will continue to not be deterred from accomplishing any plans, goals, or aspirations.