I'm Coming Home

I was lying on my bed, trying to be as still has possible. The nurse had told me yesterday that I was going to school today. And that I would be released from the hospital that day too. I smiled, my brown hair lying in a heap on my pillow. I can make friends!

I thought, thinking the thoughts most 5 year old's would. I can go to school and draw and have fun and maybe people will like me!

I jumped out of my lavender bed covers. My crisp white walls, full of pictures my Dad had taken, and drawings I had made on countless sick nights, seemed to say Good Morning

! My floor was clean, and on my white rocking chair was my outfit for my 'first' day of school; a pink tee-shirt and a pair of jeans. My pretty dress wash going through it's final was in the cleaners, being the helpless victim of one of my vomit attacks.

I shook my head, quickly dressing. The nurse said I was all better, but I would have to be very, very careful of what I eat.

My jeans were hugging my legs in a comfortable way. Today is going to be a good


My mom, still looking worn from a month of sleepless nights and a 3 day hospital stay, had thrown her blond hair into a ponytail. I knew she would have to go back to the hospital soon, because she told me that money was flying away and she had to go catch some more. She wore a blue shirt, jeans and had a white dress on the dining chair. She gave me a weary smile, pushing a bowl of cereal my way and going to the fridge. I winced, pushing the bowl of cereal away from me. She turned around, a frown replacing her smile, a syringe and bottle in one of her hands, a gallon of milk in the other.

"Jackie," My mom whispered, tears coming down her cheeks. "You've spent the last month vomiting up all of your meals and urinating all of your liquids. The hospital spent 3 days drawing blood from your arm every 2 hours."

I winced, sipping water from my favorite Dora the Explorer

cup. The memories haunted me, flashing before my too-young eyes. Today, they were orbs of Brown and were staring intently at my mother, who was now leaning on the table for support, as though the words were sucking the life out of her. She whispered "please, for my sake, eat something


I stared at my cereal, my stomach betraying me. I glanced at my mom, who was now staring intently at my blond Cocker-Spaniel, Mandy, wobble into the kitchen. I gulped the remainder of my water, and asked the question I already knew the answer too; "Will I have to take a shot?"

My mom sighed, closing her eyes. "Yes, baby. I would take it myself if I could, but I can't."

I cried and turned my head away, thrusting my arm out so she could get it over with. She clucked her tongue, and started filling the syringe. "What was your blood sugar?"


"That's to be expected, sweetie, your still a tad insulin resistant, but soon your blood-sugar will be normal."

"Not like me." I answered as a sharp pain shot up my arm and lingered as my mother injected me with the Insulin that kept me alive.

She had no comment but smiled as I devoured my cereal.
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"Just make sure she checks her blood sugar before she eats, and before the bus takes her to Day Care." My mom told my teacher, a tall slim Asian woman. I couldn't see them, as I was reading one of the class books. Which book, I can no longer recall.

I heard the door close and I turned to face my teacher, who I had met only briefly on the real first day. She glared at me, sneering, slowly backing away. I was confused. Why did she look at me like that? What had I done to upset her?

Before I could ponder, the other 15 members of my class came into the room, giving me looks out of the corner of their eyes. I sat eagerly in my chair, two others close by, excited to meet my classmates. I liked how they all had the same yellow hair, and matching blue eyes. I had always wanted blue eyes. The other teacher, an older woman with long grey hair and saggy skin, was whispering furiously to the tall Asian teacher, who simply shook her head.

My classmates took their seats around me, but not near me. I had at least 3 seats in all directions separating me from the rest of the class. I looked at the kids choosing to sit on the floor instead of the chairs near me and wondered What's wrong with me?

As the older teacher tried quieting the whispers of the class, and the Asian one moved the chairs away from me so the others could sit, my first thought was I look different from them

. But as the memory of my first day of school, the one day I went before I got sick, came into my consciousness, I realized everyone was perfectly friendly then. So, what then?

"Class," the Asian teacher said, successfully seating the floor-students as far from me as possible. "This is our missing pupil, Jackie. Jackie is very, very

sick, so we mustn't be too close to her, or we shall get sick too. The school says she is healthy and fine, but her mother came in here this morning to tell me and Mrs.----- how to treat this sickly little girl, so please be kind

, and sweet

to her."

The class sickered and gave me hateful stares. At first, I didn't understand what they meant, and the lesson went on as what was supposedly normal. It wasn't until 'Recess' until the true hatred dawned on me. 'Recess' was held 10 minutes before the buses were supposed to take us home or to daycare.

I had one friend that I made on the first day, and I went to play with her, to ask her what the teacher meant. The moment I got near her, she screamed "Go away, sickie

, your weird

! I don't like you!" I began to cry and the little girl laughed, and the rest of the class joined in. I looked around, feeling small and stupid. Tears streamed down my face and I felt a thousand times worse than what I felt in the hospital.

"Sickie isn't normal, Sickie isn't normal

." The class jeered as I walked quietly to the chairs. My seat, still in having a wide berth from the rest of the students, seemed to be a symbol of my shame. I sat there, my tears falling into little puddles on the floor, my hair masking my face. I looked at the board and practiced spelling out the words in my mind. The one thing I knew I would do better than the rest of the class was reading and spelling. When my teachers said it was time to go, I didn't say a word until the class left. The pair of them just stared at me, their eyes holding a mix of fear and pity.

"You were very mean to me, and that's not nice," I said, staring at them evenly. "I am going to tell on you. You are not supposed to treat me like this. I hope you too get spanked and are punished for how bad you made me feel. Shame on you."

I left the room, and for the rest of the year, both teachers went out of their way to torment me in any way that they could think of without physically touching me. The class joined with the teachers, and I bested them in everything. At the end of the year, I hugged my teachers tight and, to their shock, sneezed on them. My final words to them were "I hope you get sick and meet someone exactly like you so you know how I felt."

And I left.

End of Memory.


Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.01.2012

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