Despite all the tests and doctors, the original Crohn`s flare-up that sent me to the GI didn`t subside. The symptoms kept getting worse. And twenty-four hours before homecoming, I was drowning in pain. So, rather than putting on a dress, painting on blush and eye shadow, and going to my first homecoming dance, I walked into the hospital and became a patient.
The day before homecoming, I called my date and cancelled. I didn`t tell him I was calling from a payphone in the hallway of a hospital, or that I was wearing a ratty robe, or that I`d wheeled an IV stand with three fluid bags hanging from it. He didn`t need to know.
For five days, I was unable to eat, unable to control my bowels, and attached to dozens of wires. I spent much of that hospital experience either crying or yelling. I was so angry and in so much pain and felt so sorry for myself. I knew everyone else was dancing and having the time of their lives at homecoming while I was laid up in a hospital bed in severe pain.
After a few days of steroids, fluids, and nourishment, the doctors sent me home. I was apparently healthy enough to go back to school and I didn`t feel sick anymore. But, by then, I`d missed about two weeks of class, otherwise known as a lifetime in teenage world, and I was nervous about going back. Not only was I far behind on schoolwork, but the steroids the doctors prescribed came with some pretty nasty side effects: chipmunk cheeks, also known as moonface; acne; and a pissy attitude some might call "roid rage."
Even still, I was determined not to let any of that get to me. I was going to blend in and go back to normal. And then I walked into my first class, sat at my desk, and the boy next to me, who I didn`t know, promptly leaned over and said, "You`re back. I thought you died".
Thanks, random boy from social studies. Real helpful