I hastily run and punch the gymnastics floor with my aching feet into a forward somersault, promptly landing gracefully onto the blue mat. Dull pain in my lower abdomen refused to subside as I inch my way through the early morning practice. “It’ll go away eventually,” I tell myself. One morning, after consecutive weeks of sporadically enduring the abdominal pain, a gruesome abnormality woke me up at 5 am. My stomach felt constricted and I winced from every movement I made due to the extreme throbbing pain. Eventually, I passed out, then later awoke to find my stomach ache just borderline tolerable. I stayed in this state for a week until my dad was finally convinced that I needed medical help.
I staggered into my local health clinic, where they did some blood work and took a urine sample—the test came back abnormal. The doctor stated with a worried expression, “I’ve never seen someone’s white blood cell count so high.” Generally, a high white blood cell count indicates that the body is fighting off an infection, which would include symptoms, such as fever and shortness of breath, none of which were present. I was then promptly rushed to Medical City for further testing. At this point, my stomach pain hasn’t gotten any better and I still had to slowly waddle, like a penguin, to obviate the tenderness of my abdomen; yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about the THSGCA State Gymnastics Meet coming up. I had been working hard all year, attending 6:30 practices in the morning, and showing up to optional afterschool workouts.
After a couple of minutes of reminiscing, I had arrived at the hospital. I waddled my way to the front receptionist desk with my dad, where we filled out a couple of forms, then I would be officially admitted into the hospital as a patient. The lobby area was quiet and peaceful, not like many of the TV shows I had seen where there was always something eventful happening. I was rolled in a wheelchair to my own room, where they performed a dozen other tests on me. After 4 hours of checking my emails and doing my best to complete my homework, the doctor informed me that I would have to stay the night for more testing, “I guess I can’t go to the gym anymore,” I sighed.
Early in the morning, a nurse crept into my room and politely asked me if she could take my blood, though I know that it was not up for discussion. A few hours later, my doctor came in to discuss how he is going to handle my diagnosis, then he informed me that I was not to eat or drink anything after midnight. This went on for 7 days; until a test had finally given promising results that would aid in my treatment. I had a procedure, in which the doctor would surgically cut a hole in my back, then insert a tube inside it to drain out an abscess located behind my bladder. Two days later, I was discharged, but I still had to keep the tube attached inside of me. My initial question was, “So can I start to work out again now?” Unfortunately, my physician informed me that I would not be able to for at least a few weeks.
After I got cleared to resume physical activity again, the road to recovery was strenuous. I wasn’t able to comfortably walk for over 3 weeks while in, and before going to the hospital, so I stayed in bed virtually all-day; I would barely move a muscle. I fell into a state of near depression, due to being cut off for eternity from something I love to do. Once I got the tube ripped out of my back, the blood that squirted out from me woke me up. I realized I couldn’t let one setback define my entire life. All the countless hours of pumping out blood, sweat, and tears are apart of who I am, and anything that defies it is unacceptable.
I plan on becoming a physician assistant. I have already been accepted into The University of Texas at Austin with Biology as my major. I am confident in my ability to succeed in the classroom, in hopes of bringing my talents to the medical world and doing great things.