I don't have any problem with hospitals. I suppose I'm lucky, I guess. I know there are a lot of people out there who can't stand hospitals. Afraid of them, disgusted, whatever- I've never really felt that. Thank God, too, I've been there enough. It'd be a pain if they scared me.

I was born with a pre-existing medical condition- not real deadly, but it certainly does get in the way sometimes. Up until last year I was fine, aside from the yearly "procedure." I'd go to the hospital; they'd knock me out; I'd wake up and be fine. But that's what I called it. Every time anyone asked, "Well, what is the procedure? What's it do?" I'd groan. I still haven't found a way to describe it without me sounding as if it's some or horrid thing and the asker thinking I'm dying. Or worse. They'd think it wasn't that bad that I'm complaining, which I'm not.

I was a small baby. I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't eat because I was in pain. I was in pain because I had severe acid reflux. A lot of people have heard of acid reflux. You know. Heartburn? Indigestion? That's what it is. I had it bad, though, as a baby. I had worse acid reflux than most elderly adults do. My stomach didn't stop the acid from coming up, and my baby throat was all torn up. My parents were terrified. For a while, it seemed like I'd have a lot of long-term illnesses. Even esophageal cancer. Scary. Very scary stuff for a parent. Especially newlyweds with their first child.

But a savior appeared in the form of a Dr. Farmer. She did my operation and I will always love her for that. After, I was switched over to another whom I love and admire, a Dr. Belnap. He did my yearly check-up, this so-called "procedure."

I hated it as a kid. Not pleasant. Now, I don't enjoy getting my procedures done, but they certainly are nothing special. I have as much fear for them as I do for brushing my teeth. It's not fun, but not a total pain. It's good for me and my health.

Each procedure, I couldn't eat anything after midnight the day of. I was starving, I tell you. My mom would wake me up, and drive me there after I brushed my teeth. I was a good girl- no breakfast- but clean teeth was at least habit. Mom and I were always quiet, so we wouldn't wake up my siblings. We were quiet for me too, I imagine.

We'd arrive, receive direction from the front desk, and sit in a waiting area. The waiting area was usually quiet- the T.V. was muted, the other occupants also preferred the quiet, and 7:00 was ridiculously early in the morning. I'm loud by nature, I like noise, but I would never want to be loud in the waiting area. I wanted the entire morning would pass by as quietly as possible. When I was younger-6 or 7ish- I was nervous, and I was trying to be brave. I had done it before. No big deal, right? Until I got older, and more used to it than I already was, it was a big deal.

Then we'd be called up and the nice- or tired- and efficient lady who would ask my mom questions about my health and I'd sit there, answering questions I knew the answer to myself, or feeling sick with nerves about the fact that once again I'd have my procedure. Sometimes I'd be too tired to answer, or I'd still be in my "Silence is the mother of all that is good and holy" moods.

Have you eaten anything since midnight, last night?

No. Ah, well, actually I had some water when I brushed my teeth this morning.

(That's okay).

What medications do you take?

Um… Prevacid.

Insurance?

…

Hold out your left hand.

(I hold out my left hand).

And then she would put a hospital bracelet on me, and each time I'd look at it- alien, yet familiar. Hospital bracelets mean "be scared" in the movies. It has my name. I've seen this before.

Check your name and birthdate. Are they correct?

(I check to make sure). Yeah, it's right. (How do I spell my name again? No, I'm not sure). (Why do they want to make me assume something's wrong? I feel like I should find something to be wrong, so it can be corrected, and we'll be sure it's perfect).

Then we'd wait some more. Just Mom and me. It was always my mom who went with me. I'm glad; I loved my mom more than I loved my dad. No, I guess I loved them equally. But I loved the way she handled my procedures. She was calmer, and didn't poke fun at me, as Dad did. But to a kid, it feels the same.

Then we'd be taken away to my actual room. Sometimes it was just a curtained area in the hallway, but as I got older, I got more privacy. A room to myself. But maybe the room to myself thing was just because my doctor moved to a different hospital. Bigger hospital.

Change into these.

I was always embarrassed by having to wear the hospital gowns. They were so, well, not my clothes, and they had an open back. It was even worse the times when I was in a curtained room, rather than a real ward. The real wards had bathrooms, but when I was in the curtain, I had to walk down the hall to use the can.

When I was younger, I'd think of reality T.V. shows, and imagine meeting my soul mate at the hospital. He'd be in the room next to mine, for the same condition. We'd meet and it'd be so romantic. And we'd both be brave, and we'd both think it's stupid to wear your problems on your sleeve or play the "sick" card.

I was an imaginative kid. I'd imagine up T.V. show plots that took place in the rooms. Nothing morbid, but plots for people getting better. One would be that some boy was in the room next to mine, and he was on the bed and his family would talk. About football, about family reunions, about ice cream. I'd imagine conversations between the sick and well. Or maybe a beautiful woman with a broken leg would fall in love with a handsome nurse. (I had many male nurses take care of me. The "nurses are female" stereotype never made its way into my head). They would laugh and joke, while she'd pout about not playing soccer for a while…

It never really occurred to me that a hospital could be sad. Sure, I knew that some people died in hospitals, but I didn't get it. Despite the fact I hated my procedure, I knew it made me better. Maybe like some magic stomach cleaning. I always felt better after leaving the hospital, in a sense. Leaving meant I was well. I always just assumed I was well because of the hospital.

My nurse would walk in, and get to business. Check my pulse, collect urine samples I'd already provided, and connect me to a monitor via thumb. Then came the horrible moment known as the needle. Each time, I knew it was coming, yet each time I'd still feel nervous.

Do you really need to prick me? Do you really need to use the needle?

Yes, sweetie, we do. (They know I know the answer).

Will it hurt?

(She rubs alcohol on skin). It feels like a pinprick. A mosquito bite.

Nuh-uh, I've had this done before.

(Then suck it up). You'll be fine. You have nice veins for this.

(Prideful). Thanks. You can really see them, can't you?

Yup, I don't have to search for them at all.

I get my veins from my mom. I'm lucky, because I hear from my friend Rosie that if you don't have clear veins, the nurses can miss. And then they need to jab you again.

Mom would offer her hand to hold. I'd take it, squeeze the life out of her, and complain that it hurt more than a pinprick. Though I disliked needles, I was not deathly afraid, despite my antics.

To be fair, it really does feel like a pinprick now. I don't know whether it's medical advancement, or me just growing up, but needles are not scary at all to me anymore. I'm one of those weird people, I've recently discovered, who actually prefer to see oneself get poked, rather than look away and wait for it to come.

And usually I'd get a few books or watch the T.V. they so nicely provide you with. Ellen DeGeneres is something Mom and I'd watch together. Dad would come in later after dropping my siblings off at my grandma's. I'd be grateful he was there, though bitter. I like my alone time with Mom. But I always felt better about the hospital with him being there. Dad was rational person, if he laughed and joked there, it couldn't be too bad.

My specialist had been with me since birth. Ever since I can remember, he'd walk in and start with a joke.

What's black and white and red all over?

(I've never heard this one.) I don't know. What?

A penguin with lipstick all over its face.

… Well, I laughed, okay?

He would hold his hand out to shake mine, before offering his hand to my parents. A nice gesture, I only now understand. I'd stare a bit before taking it.

I needed more procedures when I was younger. When I was one, I first had my surgery. After, I had at least six check ups in the next year. Then three procedures the next year, and two a year until I was twelve. After that, once a year.

My other doctors would then walk in and start telling me about what was going to be done today, and that I shouldn't run around later because of the anesthesia, and that I should only eat light foods for the rest of the week.

I was a pro. I knew exactly what to tell the nurses and doctors and anesthesiologists. Do this, don't do that. I will puke on your shoes if you give me this kind of medicine. Even now, it gives me a certain pleasure when my parents remind me that the doctors were always surprised to be ordered around by a six year old. How do you fight that? I knew what I was talking about.

I'd interject, half explain it to them, and make sure they knew what was really happening. Once again, they loved being told what to do by a kid a fraction of they're age. I was a cute kid; maybe they really did think it was funny.

Then they'd roll my bed out and get down to business. I'd feel nervous, and my parents would promise to meet me when I woke up. The bed moved quickly and before I knew it, I was in the operating room. It's different from what I imagine from what I see on T.V. It always had a high ceiling, and lots of cool looking equipment. Or maybe the ceiling just looked high. It reminded me of a science lab.

There'd be a doctor there, prepping the equipment, monitors, etc. who'd attempt to make small talk, not expecting a reply, I'm sure. But I'd make small talk, give my name, grade, favorite subject, speak of my fantastic grades- I'd just keep talking. Even as they put my oxygen mask on me and add the anesthesia to my I.V., I kept talking, fighting the sleepiness I felt.

What grade are you?

*Grade and age*

(At this point, I'd expect them to be surprised I'm responding at all. Aren't I nervous about the procedure?). That's nice.

I do really well in school. All G's and VG's… That stands for "Good" and "Very Good".

Oh, really?

Yep, and I have a cat name Stanley. He's really cute.

(Putting an oxygen mask on me). Okay.

My brother and sister are at my grandma's, because my mom and dad are outside in the waiting room.

The doctors-surgeons?-helping Dr. Belnap with my procedure would then start bustling around me, getting things ready and prepping me for the procedure. I'd still attempt to talk, and more than once has a specialist told me to stop talking so they could but the oxygen mask on. When technology advanced, as it does, I no longer needed a mask- oxygen tubes go in the nose only. More opportunity for me to talk freely until I was put under.

Before my specialist moved to a different hospital, I'd be hooked up to a weird machine, with weird sticker-like objects. They'd connect me to more monitors. I'd be too tired to move and help them- they usually had already put the anesthesia in my I.V. Maybe this was done on purpose, so they could just roll me over to get it done, rather than have me try to move away. I used to think that was silly. I only moved away from the oxygen mask.

After a certain point, sometimes I'd hear my specialist telling me to go to sleep, on repeat as it became harder to fight off the drugs, or other times the lights above made funny shapes.

More often than not, I'd wake up cranky. My parents would greet me and get the nurse. Dad would start picking on me, and I'd respond rudely. He'd laugh at me more and force me more awake. Each time I woke up, I'd try to go back to sleep.

Come on, Allison, get up.

Noooooo… (Roll over).

Let's go, we gotta get outta here.

Don't waaannaaaaaaa… (Roll over again).

Don't you want to leave the hospital and go home?

(Ignore him). (Curl into blanket).

Then he'd force me to sit up, and I'd try to fall asleep sitting up. Eventually I'd be too uncomfortable and tried to wake up. Mom would dress me (I was too tired to do it myself) after Dad left the room.

When I was finished, the nurse would come in and give me a popsicle. When I was younger, Mom or Dad would carry me out, but eventually I'd be pushed out by a wheel chair.

By then, our car would be at the front of the hospital, and I'd stagger out of the chair- with Mom's support. I felt too woozy to move on my own, but I'd always insist I wasn't. We'd get to the car and I'd rip off the band-aid placed on my arm where the I.V. was. Sometimes I would attempt to bite off my hospital bracelet, but that was a more unyielding foe.

Mumbling. Do you have any scissors?

No, sorry, honey.

Mumbling.

Allison, don't bite it.

Noooooooo…

For the rest of the day I was to lay low. Do nothing all day, watch T.V., and relax. The anesthesia wiped me out, and despite my night owl tendencies, I'd go to bed early… Though I wasn't very good at staying still. Once I tried riding my bike later that evening. It was not fun when I tipped over and was carried home, dizzy-headed. This was when I was younger. Nowadays, the medical field is so much more advanced. It's hard to be afraid of hospitals when I have literally seen it improve with my own eyes. Though I have done nothing to contribute, I am especially proud of scientific advances in the anesthesia field. It is so exact, that I can wake up within fifteen minutes of when they finish.

To anyone, that might not make sense. To me, it has changed from over half an hour extra in a hospital to wake up to fifteen minutes and leave. That's improvement! Not only that, but I don't even feel woozy or dizzy anymore, even within less than half an hour of waking up. I can now ride my bike later in the evening!

Understand, I enjoy being able to move around after those days. Hospitals can do nothing if not make people restless.

My diet still suffers, though, these hospital days. I am definitely not allowed to eat anything pointy that would irritate my throat. Nothing rough, tough, or harder than soup and pasta. Bummer. Mom and Dad made up for it though, when they bought me chewy candies and ice cream when I was younger. Life seemed more fair that way.

I've been going to my hospitals at least once a year my entire life. They have always been a symbol of good health to me. Yes, to some it signifies death and illness, but they think that just because death and illness exist in the world in general. In a hospital, you get better. I do realize that not everyone gets better. That more than sometimes one doesn't get saved. But at least you have a shot. At least you get a chance to get better, no matter how slight. And that's enough for me.