The Hospital: Heaven and Hell

I always like to imagine that doctors, teachers, and other authority figures give nicknames to their subjects. The girl who always writes her essays in bright, glittery inks transforms into "Sparkles." The football player who protects the nerds earns the misnomer, "The Big Friendly Giant." If my hunch is right, although I've only been here for one night and half a day, the hospital staff probably calls me "Jekyll and Hyde" since I'm either cracking jokes or crying enough to produce the next great flood.

I've tried to smile at all the doctors and nurses who've walked into my room, clipboards in hand and questions on the tip of their tongues. My medical history. My comfort level. And, my favorite, "How are you doing?" Usually I'll just say, "I'm here" and leave it at that. After all, how great can I be doing if I'm stuck in a hospital bed?

My room for a bit...

Truthfully, not very great, before or during my hospitalization. I can deal with the clusters of wires stuck to my chest like a Frankenstein experiment. I can deal with the IV stuck into the side vein of my wrist. The nose feed, though, is killing me. Literally, I look like a movie's zombie extra whose brain is slowly dripping out through one nostril.

Besides the discomfort, besides the blood, besides all of the anxieties that accompany a foreign object sliding through my nose and into my stomach, the worst part is how wrong this whole thing is. As I laid on the bed crying to my mom from the pain of the nose feed last night, all we could say was, "How did we get here?" How did a fit, soccer-playing foodie turn into a malnourished twig terrified of food?

I should be in college classes right now, watching the second hand of the clock tick closer to the freedom of Friday nights out with friends. Tonight, I should be relaxing in my dorm room, shrieks from midnight surfing expeditions and volleyball games drifting in my window and urgings from my dorm mates urging me to abandon the homework and help pierce Sidney's ears. My biggest worry should be whether or the not the cute sophomore seated next to me likes my personality or my homework grade, not how everyone will react when I walk onto campus with a tube taped to my face.

Modeling my lovely feeding tube

As a celiac, I already eat gluten free while my friends chow down on pizza. I already dodge culinary social events with the footwork of a ninja. And now the doctors tell me a feeding tube will become my newest fashion accessory around my college campus.

That broke me.

Because you know what? I'm tired of being different, tired of my health setting me apart from others. I don't want my identity - the sick girl - to be established before my mouth even shoots out a joke. 

And it will be. By the quizzical stares on campus as I cross the street, white tube shining brightly in the morning sun. By the questions immediately after an introduction. By the judgements of the college peers and professors who interact with me ever day. 

And this fact - the fact that I will be judged by the tube in my nose - is freaking terrifying. "Freaking" be a slightly ironic phrase considering "freak" is the only word constantly fluttering through my mind. But, as hysterical as I feel, in some deep pit of my stomach there is calm. A quiet, reluctant acceptance. 

It will be okay...eventually

Because I have people standing behind me. My family, including my mom who is hugging me as I write this. My readers, who have flooded my email with of motivation and prayer. Perhaps most applicably, though, the girls waiting for me back at my college dorm. 

When I suffered a meltdown after hearing about my upcoming hospital stay, they surrounded me in a group hug and postponed dinner to cuddle and watch TV. The day I left, they slid cards and homemade gifts under the door, along with promises to keep me in their prayers. And when I posted a picture of my hospital bed, they made me laugh by linking the music video, "Eye of the Tiger."

A few of my going away presents...

As awful as my recent health troubles from celiacs have been, though, it's also forced me to open up and bond. These girls have seen me at my most tired, my most irritable, my most vulnerable and they have loved me through them. I know no matter what shape I return to school in - weak, strong, or even attached to a feeding tube like a cyborg from a science fiction novel - they will support me. And with that in mind, walking around campus as a tube face is a little - just a little, mind you - less scary.


Have you ever spent time in a hospital? What is your celiac support group? Comment below!