The Night We Met

Sometimes I go back to the night that I got sick. It’s funny cause I can’t really remember what I was like and certain parts of my life, but I remember this time vividly. I think about scenarios where what if I did something different, could things be different? Could I still be healthy? I go back to the time I ran to the girls’ bathroom and started spitting blood into the sink and mom rushing after me. How another mom came in trying to help. How I drove home and I couldn’t stay in one lane driving home with my brother. How I couldn’t stay awake when I got home, and how my dad shined a light into my eyes and told me I was photophobic. The repeated drives to the hospital. The IV’s beeping in my arm. The nurses coming in trying different medications. The multiple times they released me giving up. How could they miss the signs for three years? How could I go about my life toxic on medications for a year and a half? How did I function? How I can barely stay awake for the last three years of my life? How I should’ve lived every moment to the fullest by the time I turned 17. I feel like I took the first 17 years of my life for granted. Sometimes I wish I could turn back time, changed schools, and tried not to be miserable.


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