The lights of the cars blur as we race towards the hospital.  Mom and Dad aren’t telling me what’s happening, and I’m in too much pain to care.
I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to convince my parents that yes, something is very wrong with me.  I’ve told my parents that my back hurts too much to even move sometimes, but they didn't believe me.  Now, my parents finally gave in and are taking me to the doctor.
It was my first MRI, and I learned that when the tech tells you to use the restroom before, you probably should, to say the least.  I couldn’t move, and the pain worsened every second that I was in the machine.  Having no concept of time is excruciating, especially when you have to pee.
The radiologist called this afternoon to say found a spot on my MRI.  They told my mom and dad not to worry, but we need to go to the hospital in St. Louis immediately.  After two hours, we finally arrive at the Children’s Hospital.  The valet parks the car while Mom and Dad get me through security and into the emergency room.  We wait for two more hours before a doctor comes in.  I put down the iPad and try to explain my situation.  When I say “lower back pain” and “tightness in my legs” the doctor says that I need a neuro consult and will have to wait for a different doctor.
We wait, and wait, and wait.  Finally a doctor comes in and asks for the scans.  He looks them over and shows us a huge white spot on my spinal cord.  It measures approximately 5 cm by 2 cm.  It’s huge, spanning over two of my lower lumbars.  “You’ll have to talk to Dr. Stralyee tomorrow,” he says.  Mom and Dad look at each other.  Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.
“Is there anyway that we can come back later?”  Mom asks. 
“Yes, but if your symptoms get any worse, come back immediately,”  he says this as he walks out the door, already forgetting us.
The next three days are a blur.  My parents hold off on returning to the hospital, because they want me to enjoy Christmas, but I’m in too much pain to care.
Now we’re talking to the neuro doctor.  She’s amazed that I can still walk.  The size and location of the tumor should leave me paralyzed.  We schedule the surgery for the 29th of December.  Two days, I can make it.
I’m cold, I’m in pain, but they’re going to fix me.  I tell myself this over and over after I refuse the sedatives and glare at the nurse that puts the needle in my arm.  The nurses wheel me into the operating room.  The room is so bright that I have to squint to see the doctor.  They tell me to breath deep and count down from ten to one.  I feel a stick in my arm but never have the chance to say ow.  I’ve already slipped into darkness.
I wake up groggy, confused, and in a whole new dimension of pain.  “Ow, my back hurts,”  I moan.  Dad laughs and explains to my drugged up self that I just had back surgery.  I have to lie on my back for twenty-four hours after the surgery.  If you ever have to do this, be prepared for the most boring twenty-four hours of your life; the drugs don’t help the pain and make you too incompetent to do anything more than sleep.
The next few days go by in a haze.  I don’t remember much, but what I do remember is weird to say the least.  The nurses are nice and sympathetic.  The foods tastes bad because the drugs mess with your taste buds.  Having people visit you is awkward because you don’t want people to see you drugged up and gross, so you try to play it cool and end up looking stupid.  I watched the same movie at least ten times and only remember the first five minutes.
After spending only six days in a hospital, I have a new respect for them.  They were created to take care of the hard cases and make even the sickest of people healthy again.  I’ve grown stronger and smarter from my experience.  The relief was definitely worth the wait.