Screaming, crying, and the feeling of sheer panic filled our car as my mom and I rushed to the ER.  I was in the second grade when it was finally time to get my ginormous tonsils taken out.  At the doctor’s appointment, the bitter nurse reported, “She needs to have them taken out.”  Salty tears filled my eyes because I knew that involved a surgery of some sort.  I was not looking forward to that dreaded day, but it was coming soon.

Unable to stop thinking about the surgery, my parents kept assuring me, “Nothing bad is going to happen.  The doctor knows what he’s doing.”  But I, being a worrier, thought, I will never wake up and die because the doctors will slice my throat in half.  My dad would try to keep me calm by telling me about all the ice cream I could have after words, which made me feel a little better.  He continued to tell me while patting me on the back, “It’ll be over before you know it.  Afterwards, you’ll have all the ice cream you want.”  All the ice cream I wanted sounded nice, but I still had to have the surgery.  My parents kept saying it would be fine, so I believed them.

Once the day of the surgery arrived, I was shaking like I was in -50 degree weather.  The butterflies in my stomach wouldn’t go away no matter how many times the nurses tried to calm me down.  I had to put on this ugly light blue gown, shower cap, and slippers.  “I love you.  See you when you wake up!” my parents told me.  I went with the doctors down the long, never ending hallway.  The doctors held my hand as we were walking, and they asked, “Are you our friend?” 

I responded with, “Yes,” although I was thinking, No, I hate you people.  I couldn’t tell them that, though. 
Once we arrived, I hopped up on the bed looking around the bright white room, shaking even worse than before.  The doctors thought I was cold, but I was really shaking because I was freaking out on the inside.  The scary, silver medical equipment kept my attention.  A nurse dressed in her scrubs with her hair in a blue cap, nicely requested, “Lie down, sweetie.” They came at me with their latex gloves and creepy masks.  The anesthesiologist told me, “Count to three and you will be asleep.”  He put the mask over my mouth and nose, and like that, I was out.  A mysterious, minty gas filled my airways.  Having to breathe in that awful gas made me gag for a couple seconds, but it didn’t last long. 

Hours later, I woke up in a small, scary, sterile room with cords wrapped around me like I was tucked in bed. Tape covered my arms, and I felt drowsy, too.  Whenever I swallowed, it felt like I didn’t have a throat.  It was a weird feeling, but I kept swallowing.  They wheeled me down a hallway back to my parents.  My parents told me I was lucky to not have any complications after the surgery like my brother had—or so we thought. 

About a week passed, and I wasn’t feeling the best.  I had a fever of 103 degrees like a sauna, and my throat started to bleed.  Constantly coughing up blood, my mom rushed me to the ER.  Holding the towel she gave me, the entire way there I couldn’t stop coughing up blood.  The thought of death came over me.  On the phone with my dad was my mom as she kept looking back at me while freaking out yelling, “I’m taking her to the ER, and she’s coughing up blood!  We’ll be there in a few minutes.”  I finally arrived to the ER and had to stay in that prison over Christmas Eve to recover from what happened.  I was on all types of medication, and I remember asking the doctor, “Will I have to get my tonsils taken out again?”

With a laugh he replied, “No. You’ll be better in no time.”   

When I finally went home, I was upset with my parents because they convinced me, “Nothing bad is going to happen.”  I forgave them eventually; however, I was only in second grade, so I thought it was the scariest event ever. I even ate all the ice cream I wanted —only green Jell-O.