Pamela Grullon

        It was a warm Spring afternoon. I am sitting in the waiting room of the hospital. Next to me is my dad and twin sister. There are more people in the room, but I have never seen them before in my life. I had already been sitting there for hours, so I was bored out of my mind. There was nothing interesting going on; Same old desk, same old chairs, same old vending machine with disgusting snacks, and same old clock that I have spent most of my time staring at. In the middle of my “room observations,” I hear the doctor come out and call my name.

The doctor is leading me to his office. My heart is pounding like a drum. I am too nervous to think. After we arrive at his office, I sit on the patient bed and he begins to examine the cut in my leg. He decides that the cut is small enough to be “glued” shut. After 2-5 minutes of him brutally trying to squeeze the cut shut, he comes to a conclusion that I will need stitches. As he takes out the stitches, anesthetics, and the actual stitches, I feel like I am going to faint. My mom, who had just arrived minutes earlier, tells me to close my eyes, and I do.

The room has become pitch black. He cleans the cut and then I feel the anesthetics needle go straight into the center of my cut, but I manage to hold back the tears. But then, as he poked my leg with his stitches needle, I shot out screams one after another. After about 30-45 minutes of torturous pain, he was done. There were 11 stitches that felt like they were engraved into my flesh. I could not wait to get out of there as he was telling my mom how\when to clean my leg. When I got out of the hospital and smelled the fresh air, I knew the pain was over.