On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My sickness brought and tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My sickness brought and tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My sickness brought and tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My sickness brought and tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My sickness brought and tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My sickness brought and tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose me or provide my parents with any real hope. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. Her abilities instilled a dream in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My parents clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. As the nurses snatched me away for testing that would fail to give answers, my parents were losing time with their newborn daughter. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. But what my parents saw as a glimmer of hope, the doctors saw as my final days approaching nearer. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. I stuttered a “thank you,” and shook his large rough hand with my lifeless one. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of sour, bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. Out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My parents clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. As the nurses snatched me away for testing that would fail to give answers, my parents were losing time with their newborn daughter. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. But what my parents saw as a glimmer of hope, the doctors saw as my final days approaching nearer. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. I stuttered a “thank you,” and shook his large rough hand with my lifeless one. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of sour, bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. Out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My parents clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. As the nurses snatched me away for testing that would fail to give answers, my parents were losing time with their newborn daughter. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. But what my parents saw as a glimmer of hope, the doctors saw as my final days approaching nearer. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. I stuttered a “thank you,” and shook his large rough hand with my lifeless one. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of sour, bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. Out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors, despite their best efforts, were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me. My unidentifiable sickness brought tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. As the nurses snatched me away for testing and observations that would fail to give answers, my parents were losing precious time with their newborn daughter. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. But what my parents saw as a glimmer of hope, the doctors saw as my final days approaching nearer. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. I stuttered a “thank you,” and shook his large rough hand with my lifeless one. Thankfully with my diagnosis also came treatment. After just one dose of sour, bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

On December sixth, 2004, in Poland, five sisters sat together while drawing welcome cards for the newest member of their family, me. Everything was going well until the news broke that I would die in three months. My doctors, despite their best efforts, were unable to diagnose what was wrong with me or provide my parents with any real hope. My unidentifiable sickness brought anguish and tears to my parents’ eyes. They clutched my toy-sized body, and pulled me in closer to their chests. My eight-pound body was pumped daily with steroids, an attempt to suppress the symptoms of my mysterious illness. Miraculously I fought past the three-month mark. But what my parents saw as a glimmer of hope, the doctors saw as my final days approaching nearer. When I was one year old my family moved from Poland to the United States as Catholic missionaries. Moving to the US turned out to be my saving grace, as eventually I would receive a diagnosis and treatment. Staying home for weeks in bed with medicine that had no effect, and a thermometer living under my armpit, my sickness became my childhood. My parents routinely rushed me to the hospital with a few belongings and the little money we had. My severely weakened immune system could not fight off the high fevers, painful sores in my mouth, and hallucinations. For nine years the hospital ceiling, the drops of IV fluids, and the desperate crying of my parents was all too familiar. I was dying to live but living to die. Finally, I received a diagnosis from Boston’s Children Hospital, PFAPA Marshall Syndrome. I clearly remember the middle-aged doctor with the short brown beard explaining the diagnosis which perfectly corresponded with my symptoms. I stuttered a “thank you,” and shook his large rough hand with my lifeless one. After just one dose of sour, bitter and chalky steroids my symptoms started to improve. And out of all the medicine I was ordered to take, this was my favorite because I could finally live my life. After some time, I was able to return to school. Although I felt like an outsider, missing so many weeks of school and falling behind on my work, I sat on the edge of my seat and focused intently. With thin blonde pigtails, clothes hanging loosely on my growth-stunted body, and a Polish accent that no one could understand, I loved every hour in the classroom. I lost so much of my education when I was sick, but finally it was time to get my life back, to get my education back. Despite drowning in the never-ending stack of schoolwork, I always had the brightest smile in the room. There is one thing that I thank my syndrome for giving me: the desire to become a teacher. Growing up, my mom taught violin in my middle school, and she quickly became my inspiration. Following in her footsteps, I entered a future educator's program and began to help tutor classes. I diligently observed my mom’s unique interactive teaching strategies and fell in love with the way she was able to captivate the attention of a room full of students. Her ability to connect and guide her classes instilled a dream and passion in my heart to always pursue a career which would project the same life-long learning desire in others. I want to teach students the importance of school, of fighting through personal difficulties, and coming out strong. My syndrome caused me to feel weak and helpless, but it was also fundamental to discovering my vocation as an educator.

I will inspire youth through my career because I realized what it means to not have an education. Through my harsh childhood of growing up with PFAPA Marshalls Syndrome, I learned what it mean to have resilience and love for my education. My sickness prevented me from attending school for weeks on end, but it gave me maturity and a composed manner that allows me think as a teacher does. My entire life, I have been going to public schools which are full of multi-cultural diversity. I hope to inspire students to appreciate school and help them to desire a higher education with valuable life lessons while learning. Also, living in a family of 6 siblings, we weren't ever comfortable when it came to money. Often times, we struggled to have heating in the winter or buy school supplies. I realized in second grade that I long to become a teacher. Teachers and communities are essentially what builds our generations to be people, to grow up. I believe I can bring change in our schools and give passion to our children and future adults. I aspire to be the teacher I never had growing up, to be who students need the most; a trustworthy adult. My dream is to help the youth, and give education a meaning in their lives.