I don’t know how I got here, but I already know I don’t want to be here. I peer through the slits in my eyes and see chaos around me. A slightly translucent curtain is pulled around my bed, creating a red-tinted square room. Everything is moving so quickly that I barely notice the IV being stuck into my left hand, which normally I would put up quite a fight about. I look around the room and watch nurses rush around frantically.

What is going on?

My eyes rest on my dad who is hovering close by. He’s the only normal thing in this room. His eyes are twinkling and the corners of his mouth twitch up into a gentle smile when he sees I am awake. I smile weakly and begin to feel the weight piling up on my body. A nurse lays blanket after blanket on my tiny form. I count — four, five, six, seven, and on — until the blankets seem to reach well above my head. I ask her why I need so many blankets as she and another nurse strap me down onto the bed.

She gives me an unconvincing smile and says, “It’s cold outside sweetie. You wouldn’t want to catch a cold.” I accept this answer as my eyes grow heavier.

I had just turned 7.

I wonder where I am as they roll me across the concrete at top speed. I see a little metal house far off to my right. The cold wind whips at my exposed cheeks and my loose hair flies around behind me. The sky is mostly occupied by thin gray clouds which muffle the sun. I look for my dad and find him running beside my bed to who knows where.

As we near our destination, I realize it’s a plane, or rather a very small plane. I’ve never seen a plane so small, but I have ridden in a plane before. It was two years ago when my parents took me to Disneyland for my fifth birthday. I was afraid then, but for some reason this time, I’m not. Perhaps I’m just too tired.

They wheel me up into the plane and I smile giddily at my dad when he sits next to me. He tells me this is a jet, and we are going to Portland, Oregon. I don’t know where that is, but it sounds fun. If only I could get out of these blankets. It’s so hot. I can feel my face getting sticky and my body feels slimy. I complain to one of the other men sitting on either side of my dad. He tells me it is even colder in Portland, and again that I wouldn’t want to catch a cold. So now I must deal with the fact that I must be a hot and irritated burrito until we get to Portland.

In an effort to cheer me up Dad tells me Mom and his brother, my uncle, will be there when we arrive. I smile again, excited. I haven’t seen my uncle for a long time. Dad advises me to take a nap, so the time passes faster. I do.

The doctors did not want to let my Dad on the flight with me, but he couldn’t be persuaded to leave me, so they let him follow me every step of the way from Boise, Idaho to Portland, Oregon.

I hear sirens and the room is once again tinted red, but this time, it seems to jostle around. I immediately find my Dad, who continues to look at me with the same gentle smile, so I continue to smile back. I ask eagerly about when we will get to Portland and Dad says it will be very soon. I want to know what we will do when we get there and he tells me I’ll be taken to a room, and we can watch a movie if I want to. I tell him I would like that very much. I talk the entire way there.

I remember making some kind of snide remark to one of the nurses as a joke. They were surprised someone so sick could be so jovial. When we arrived at the children’s hospital in Portland I was announced as coming in Code Blue which meant I was dying and they didn’t know why.

Dad was right. They did take me to a room, but the first thing I notice is there is no T.V. It’s a large room in comparison to the one I was just in, and all white with bright lights which make everything even whiter. In the center of the room is a stainless steel table. Though I am profoundly disappointed at the severe lack of T.V.s in the room I am relieved when the nurses begin to unwrap me from my cocoon. However, I am immediately assaulted by the stinging cold of the steel topped table which they have me set my nearly bare bottom on.

Dad stands next to me and holds my hand. His smile is not the same. His eyes are a little glassier, and his normally comforting expression looks strained. I mirror him and start to look frantically around the room of bustling people. I make eye contact with the small steel table being wheeled into the room. Atop it are instruments of inexplicable torture, and then I see it, brandished in the hand of a man who is coming towards me.

I look at my Dad, eyes wide with terror, “Daddy!?” He holds my small clammy hand in both of his large, warm calloused ones and assures me it will be okay. Unfortunately, a nurse decides to tell me what is coming. She kindly informs me I will be receiving a shot to the back. After this information registers, sheer panic ensues, “No! No, no, no, no please!” I beg and begin to squirm, but cold unfamiliar hands hold me still. Dad holds my face firmly and forces me to look at him. This is something I have been doing every time I am given a shot, and in the past two weeks, I have received many shots.

I am so confused. I thought I was done. I thought after the last hospital I was all better. I can’t concentrate and I begin to protest again until a nurse sets a box of toys down in front of me. Does she really think these baby toys will satisfy me? I am still pleading when she holds a blood-red lava lamp toy in front of my face and says, “Look at this Gabby. Isn’t it pretty?”

I never get the chance to answer. I am dreaming about a vampire inserting a tube into my neck and laughing hysterically as he prepares to suck me dry.

My dad didn’t know they were going to stick a long tube down a vein in my neck and to my heart. It wasn’t until after I was stable he was told I was not supposed to have survived. The diagnosis was Hemolytic Syndrome. A disease which destroys red blood cells thus blocking the filtering system of the kidneys. E-coli from under-cooked meat was the suspected cause. My kidneys were only functioning at 10%. I was not expected to live.

I wake up in yet another white room with bright lights. I’m in a bedwhich doesn’t feel like much of an improvement from the steel table. Directly in front of me and mounted high on the wall is a small T.V. on which there are dancing and singing cats all in fuzzy multicolored leotards. Some further investigation to the left of me reveals I am connected to some kind of giant square machine as well as a sack of milk colored liquid which dangles from a metal pole with wheels. Then there are the smiling faces from across the room, all seated in plush mint green chairs. The smiles belong to my Mom, Dad, and Uncle who I am especially excited to see. Very slowly and cautiously my Mom begins to explain the various mechanisms I am attached to.

The only thing I understand is that I have two tubes somewhere in my body. One is pumping liquid food from my arm to my stomach, and the other is doing something else to my heart. I don’t really care, though. I feel weak and pathetic. I want to know when I am going home. I am not enjoying this trip to Portland anymore. Mom gives me a sad smile and says, “I don’t know baby.”

This is the first example of delirium I experienced during my stay. At a much later date, I was talking about this instance with my Uncle and said that I was so excited and happy to see him. He bluntly informed me I was, “A little shit.” Apparently I was throwing temper tantrums all over the place by being rude to nurses, getting angry at my parents, and apparently also my uncle. This loss of memory is not because of any kind of time gap. This is because of all of the medication I was being given which is somewhat upsetting.

The large machine the tube in my neck was hooked up to is called a dialysis machine. This machine was doing the job my kidneys refused to do.

I am allowed one day to rest before my doctor begins doing the dirty work with the machine, whatever that is. Mom puts in the same movie from the night before with the dancing cats. She lays with me in the stone hard bed. My Uncle has already gone home and I wonder where dad is. She tells me he is getting things ready for the two of them to stay at the Ronald McDonald House next door. I give her a quizzical look but decide I don’t really care and focus my attention back to the movie.

Much later I request the movie be started over again, and this time, my Dad watches it with me. He tells me he has seen this show live. When I ask him what he means he tells me this is actually a recording of a Broadway play called "CATS." I fall in love with it. The music, the dancing, and the different characters captivate me. This is all I do for the rest of the day.

After watching "CATS" so many times, I decide Mistoffelees is my favorite. He’s magical, which means he can do anything, or at least enough to make me feel better.

Watching "CATS" became an everyday routine for me. Every time I would get upset about something my parents would ask for the "CATS" video from the hospital’s library because watching it got me to calm down. It was very important for me to try to stay calm because every time I would get upset I would throw up uncontrollably. Also, the Ronald McDonald house is a building funded by McDonald's which is like a hotel that provides somewhere for the parents to stay while their child is recovering. I thought it was a giant McDonald’s restaurant.

They wheel me down the blue and white tiled hallway and into yet another white room with big windows that look out over one of the parking lots. Bright sunlight pools in through them and fills the room. It makes me angry for some reason.

I keep asking my parents what they are going to do to me, but it is either they don’t know, or they don’t want to tell me. Either way, I anticipate something unpleasant and of course I am right. I have seen the tubes inside my neck and know they are held against my neck with duct tape. I am instructed not to look as the doctor begins to slowly peel the duct tape away. I start to cry and protest as I feel the hairs on my neck being ripped off. When it is finally done I continue to keep my face towards the window. I don’t want to know what he is doing with my machine, but whatever it is, it makes me throw up several times.

I am taken to this room almost every day and every time I protest and cry, and every time he works on my machine I throw up and lay there crying as I stare at the infuriating sunlight streaming in through the two large windows.

I still don’t know what he was doing to me. I don’t really care.

I am wheeled back into the large room with the stupid sunlight again. I don’t know how many times I’ve been here. I don’t care anymore. My body is even smaller than it was when I first came here. I haven’t had any real food unless you count ice pops. I don’t feel good. I usually don’t feel good, but today I especially don’t feel good.

I don’t feel like being a sympathetic person today, but mom tells me there is a girl who comes in once a week for dialysis, and she has been coming in once a week for a few years now and is likely to for the rest of her life. I see the girl in the back corner next to the windows. She is talking happily to her parents while being hooked to the machine. I must look half dead to her because that’s how I feel.

Today, I hardly make a peep as the doctor rips out more of my hair and starts to do whatever he does on his stupid machine as the stupid sunlight touches my face, mocking me, and the stupid girl smiles and laughs like nothing is wrong. I can’t look at her anymore and resort to staring at the ceiling light when suddenly my pity session is interrupted by some commotion in the hallway.

The door to the room bursts open and in comes a parade of hockey players in complete uniforms only instead of sticks their arms are full of teddy bears of all shapes and sizes. The girl next to me makes a sound of awed delight as I just stare in horror as a blonde mullet headed hockey player comes up to my bed. Now I’m pissed. I start yelling and screaming, “No! I don’t want one! Go away! No, no, no, no! Please just go away!” But for some reason, everyone ignores me as a large brown teddy bear is laid across my lap and the hockey players leave in triumph.

I’m crying harder than I’ve ever cried and then I can’t help myself as I turn my head to the left and throw up on the ground next to my bed. The girl by the window is listing off the friends she plans on giving the many teddy bears she has accumulated to. She notices the mess I’ve made and momentarily gives me a pitying look. I hate her.

This is another example of delusion. Yes, I was having a very bad day. This was probably the worst day. Yes, there was a little girl and there were hockey players with teddy bears, but after recounting this to my parents, years later, they told me I didn’t do anything when the hockey players came in. I just laid there, stared at the ceiling, and after they left I threw up…I still have the bear. His name is Koda.

Today, I watched "CATS" about three times. Every time was wonderful. By now I have many of the songs memorized and am able to sing along. If I could only watch one thing for the rest of my life this would be it. However, towards the end of the day when I asked to watch it again, dad suggested we watch "Finding Nemo" instead.

Tonight is Mom’s turn to sleep with me. I can sense she is irritable. She doesn’t want to sleep with me, but I don’t know why. Dad will go back to the giant McDonald’s house and sleep there. Mom probably doesn’t like to sleep with me because the bed is uncomfortable. I don’t blame her. However, unlike most nights, tonight I drift off peacefully and have the deepest sleep I have had since I arrived.

Sometime in the early morning, when it’s still dark outside, I wake up and sink deeper into the bed which has suddenly become much warmer than it usually is. Mom feels it too and snuggles closer to me as we share the newfound warmth in the cold hospital room. Then I suddenly sit straight up and gasp. Mom sits up too, “What? Gabby what’s wrong?!” I whip the covers off of me and stare at the embarrassing dark puddle I’ve created all over our sheets. I look at my Mom and start to cry, “Mom…I have to go pee.”

Nurses rush into my room and replace my sheets with new clean ones. I am left with no privacy as I try my second attempt at taking a leak. Not only was I successful in peeing again, but the pee was also not red. Tears of joy are shed throughout the room. This is the first time I have ever wet the bed. I wasn’t expecting to be praised for it. I am told this means I’m getting better.

As gross as it sounds the whole reason I was in the hospital is because my kidneys were not filtering correctly and thus were not allowing me to be able to get rid of toxins in my body. The fact that I was peeing again meant my kidneys were starting to work again. Later my Dad told me the nurses were surprised this happened because up until then they didn’t expect me to last much longer.

I am allowed to explore the hospital on Thanksgiving Day. The hospital is much bigger than I thought it was. There are many more hallways aside from my scary tiled one. These hallways are carpeted and lined with beautiful artwork. Some of which have been done by patients.The dining hall reminds me of the Boise mall cafeteria only taller, wider, and much more beautiful. There are gift shops, various food vendors, and tables set up all over the place.

The sunlight pours through the many tall windows and fills the room. I’m not mad at it. There is a giant Christmas tree set up off to the side of the cafeteria. This makes me sad because the doctor has hypothesized I might be here for Christmas. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now that I was starting to get better my mom had started me on all the homework my first-grade teacher had been sending me.

Dad pulls me around the hospital in a little red wagon which I lay inside of atop pillows and am tucked snugly under several blankets. Later we discover the garden which is full of all kinds of different plants as well as whimsical artwork and sculptures. I even find a model of the Tin Man.

It’s evening now and they are trying to make me eat what they think is Thanksgiving dinner. I tentatively touch a drop of gravy to my tongue and gag, but thankfully do not throw up. I eat the roll and nothing else.

I was healing at an unexpected rate and by early December was able to start walking again. A week later I was discharged.

My grandparents sent me my clothes. They don’t fit the same anymore. I’m still a little wobbly when I walk too, and for some reason, they tell me that for a while I won’t be able to eat salt without throwing up. I wish I had listened to them as I lay pale-faced on the bed after having eaten a small handful of Chex Mix someone had brought me from the lobby. I am told there will be many more follow up checkups after this and unfortunately am not promised there will be no more needles. Before I leave I go from room to room and deliver balloons to all of the sick children in my hallway. I hope they don’t hate me like I hated that little girl.

From this experience I developed a hatred for Pepto-Bismol, I can’t eat tums without throwing up, and I am extremely skeptical of any kind of meat product that crosses my path. Besides this, I am fully recovered. I arrived back in Boise, Idaho around 10:00 in the evening and slept for a long time when I got back. I slept through the next day until it was dark, but was awoken by my best friend and her sisters who against my mother’s wishes I got up to play with which was a good sign.

…I was 8 years old.

The Morrison center in Boise is huge, beautiful, and not what I expected it to be. My parents told me I was here for a ball. I had expected dancing and music, but instead, all I see are lovely men and ladies all dressed up and pouring into large auditoriums, gawking at merchandise, and sampling wine and assorted truffles.

The three of us ascend a floral carpet staircase. At the top, a young boy runs up to me and asks where they are doing face paintings. My Mom giggles and tells him she painted my face at home. My face is painted to resemble a black and white cat like the ones in my favorite musical, "CATS."

Mom and I wait by double doors as Dad gets me a cup of soda and a truffle. Finally, I ask why I am the only one with a cat face and why no one is dancing. They smile at each other knowingly before my Dad tells me they have brought me here to see my idol Mr. Mistoffelees. I nearly choke on my truffle. I can hardly contain my excitement now and insist we enter through the doors immediately. Mom tells me I have to finish my drink first. I down the soda and ignore the carbonation as it burns in my throat and lead my parents into the auditorium.

We find our seats, the lights go dim, and now I am sitting in a colorful junkyard, dressed and ready for the Jellicle Ball.

Deuteronomy has just been kidnapped and the Jellicle cats are in mourning. The stage is a blueish hue, and low sad music fills the auditorium as a spotlight sweeps over the crowd. My Dad leans over to me and whispers, “I told them there would be another cat in the audience. I think they found you.” I believe him and the excitement mounts once again, but it is nowhere near the feeling I get when Rum Tum Tugger comes onto the stage and tells the Jellicle cats that perhaps they should ask Magical Mr. Mistoffelees for help. This is what I have been waiting for.

I see my idol come down from the ceiling. His coat is black and white and ever so sparkly. Rum Tum Tugger continues to sing, “Oh, well, I never, was there ever a cat so clever as Magical Mr. Mistoffelees?” as Mistoffelees flits about the stage casting spells, pulling rainbow cloth out of a hat, and most importantly, magically conjuring Deuteronomy out from under a giant cloth. He is wonderful, he is amazing, he is my hero, he’s Magical Mr. Mistoffelees.

I’m nineteen and I hardly stop to think about the past as I stand in front of the mirror in the morning throwing my hair into a hasty bun and applying sloppy liquid eyeliner. I’m trying not to be late for class and I’m making a list in my head of all the things I have to take care of, the people I have to talk to, and what other obstacles the future has for me.

I turn my head right then left as I inspect the wings of my eyeliner. I decide they will have to do even though one side is obviously sharper than the other. I rub my hands on the sides of my neck in agitation and notice the small bump graze against my right hand. I stop to inspect the little white scar on my neck that I so often forget is even there.

This stupid little scar that makes me stop and consider the things I’ve done in my life. The scar that reminds me I almost didn’t have a future. I almost didn’t get to be Drum Line captain. I almost didn’t get to discover my love for writing. I almost didn’t get to meet my amazing friends and I almost didn’t get to see "CATS" live.

When I was dying I didn’t understand what was happening, which was a good thing, but I’m glad today I understand how close I came to not having a future. The little white scar on my neck keeps me grateful for the things I have and if I could trade that life experience for anything I wouldn’t because It reminds me I am strong enough to beat the odds when all odds are against me.