English+Memoir

Kiara Mayhand Mrs. Peel/ Mr. Casal 15 September 2011 The Time I had Surgery The TV running the same advertising commercials, the patients quietly waiting to be called and the receptionists sipping coffee while chatting among themselves; this is where we were expected to be. Nervous, I approached the empty row of chairs as my father signed me in. Looking around, I saw kids my age with crutches, colorful casts, and exhaustion in their eyes.

He was very tall and lanky. I first noticed the extensive scar going completely around his head as if he had brain surgery. As he looked up from the file, his eyes were filled with uncertainty and sorrow. I studied him again. His hair was thinning and turning gray at the edges; he was probably in his late forty’s. He had very dark circles under his eyes like he’s been up for the last two days.

“Well, it seems we have a tiny problem,” he said as he looked up from the manila folder. “You need surgery as soon as possible.”

My jaw dropped as I heard these words.

“Surgery? On what? For what?” I asked as I exchanged looks with Mom and Dad.

I swung open the door, got inside, and slammed it close without a word. Mom and Dad were quiet. Thoughts ripped through my head at the speed of light. I thought of the team and became furious, then very sad. I knew that I would never be able to attempt the things I was constantly working on, and I knew I would never be the same again.

“This is going to ruin everything,” I finally said to break the silence in the car. “How?’ Dad questioned. “ How?! Dad, you heard the man, I’ll be out for a while! Then there’s that physical therapy stuff I’ll have to go to, and that ugly brace I’ll have to wear...” Mom threw an “attitude,” stare at me. I apologized under my breath. “ Yes this is going to put a tamper on you and cheerleading, however would you like to not have the surgery and complain about the pain and possibly make it worst, or go through with it and fix the problem? And, your young, you’ll bounce right back.” Dad said. I chuckled. Dad is always talking about how I’m young and injuries aren’t hard to overcome until you get old and your, “bones don’t work.” “Fine, but I’m not going to lie Dad, I’m scared. I’ve never had any type of surgery before, what if something goes wrong or I don’t wake up?” I said frightened. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine. It’s only your knee, Kiara.” “Only my knee? Dad, it’s my knee that I use to lift those girls in stunts, it’s my knee I use to tumble, it’s my knee I use to walk for crying out loud! I think I need my knee just a little.” “Kiara, watch it.” Mom said.

I was born with an oddly shaped meniscus: a piece of tough cartilage in the knee that helps even out the weight in your legs. It never bothered me until the moment I threw a back-handspring on the floor and landed wrong. The meniscus tore almost in half. The pain didn’t start until the next morning when my knee became swollen, and wouldn’t fully straighten.

We drove to the hospital very early in the morning. This time, there was only one receptionist and she was waiting for me. She introduced me to my nurse who brought me to this room with a stretcher-type bed. “Take a seat with your right leg laying on the bed and your left off. The doctor will be in shortly.” She said while walking away. I took a look around the room; it was painted blue with very tacky wallpaper surrounding it. My parents were sitting in the two chairs at the other end of the room. They looked at me but didn’t say a word. Dad broke the silence, “You shouldn’t be scared. It’s a minor surgery, sweetie. It won’t take long either.” “I’m not scared, just worried. I just hope they can knock me out fast.” I replied. A different lady walked in. She wasn’t wearing scrubs, but a nice skirt and blouse. She started talking to my parents in a hushed tone; I couldn’t hear. My mom walked over to me. “Kiara, this lady works in the research center in the hospital and would like to have your approval to donate blood that they could use for medical research. She said it won’t hurt a bit and that she can have a nurse draw the blood after you’re sleeping. What do you think?” I told her she has my approval and signed a few papers. The doctor walked in, he looked ready to go. Mom and Dad gave me a hug and watched as the nurses rolled me into the surgery room. I could see the tears forming in Mom’s eyes, some formed in mine as well. The room was bright white, like the ones you see on TV. My //anesthesiologist was cool and very funny.// “What flavor would you like?” He asked. “Huh?” I was confused. “I’ve got cherry, strawberry or blueberry.” “Strawberry what?” “Strawberry chap stick. I rub it on the inside of the mask so you won’t smell the gas; it doesn’t smell too pleasant.” “Oh, okay! Well strawberry.” “Now do me a favor, when I put the mask on, count backwards from 100, trust me you’ll be out before 95.” I remember looking into a very bright light; I got scared thinking I was seeing heaven or something. I closed my eyes and began counting backwards. “100...99...98…..97….96………..95……”

Ha! The doctor was wrong; I made it to 94 and a half! I had a huge black brace that covered the majority of my leg; I looked like a robot for about 8 weeks! After I got the ‘okay’ to go back to physical activity, I started cheering again. Sure enough, I tore my meniscus once again. After the second surgery I never cheered again, but I miss it so much. Now, I run winter and spring track for my high school and I love it! The blood I donated for research did help in the study. The lady from the research center in the hospital called and asked me to perform an intellectual test to help the study expand. Of course I said yes and I got paid for it! My knee will never quite be the same; but like my dad said, ‘I’m young and will always bounce back,’ until I get old and my ‘bones stop working!’