Nails done, check. Hair done, purse packed, iPad, iPhone…check, check, check and check. My friend was preparing to take me to the emergency room and all of the positivity I had trained my mind to focus on had left me. My mind was gone and I was left with a panicked brain as it tried to fight, or fight itself.

One test, two test, blood test, morphine. I had just finished my last round of tests before they would determine what further action needed to be taken. This whole time I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I hate this place. The last time I had stepped foot in an emergency room was when my dad was sick, and it was a place I never wanted to be in again. But here I was, not knowing anything beyond the best friend sitting next to me and the extreme pain I have had for two weeks in my mid-section. Another injection. It hits you like a whiskey shot down your throat and through your veins. My friend is by my side the whole time holding my hand and making me laugh as we shop for Valentino shoes and live stream as many shows from New York Fashion Week as we can.

No food, 72 hours and counting. My nurse comes in with two cups of liquid. A dye to prepare my insides for a CT scan. It tasted like watered down cheap vodka and I had an hour to finish these two large cartons. Finished. Now another hour to let the dye set in. My other best friend is here now and makes the room all the more cozy with her love and a pretty Valentine’s Day balloon. It’s time for the CT scan and I can’t stop tearing up.

Take a deep breath in, hold your breath, now breathe. Repeat 5 times.

“Inflammation of the digestive tract”… like Google hadn’t told me that ten times every day for the past two weeks. They want to keep me for three nights to run more tests, see more doctors and tell them the same story a million more times. I get moved to the fifth floor.

My friends leave but not for long, and come back in their pajamas with soup in their hands and games for us to play. Tears of gratitude fill my eyes as they make beds in my tiny fluorescent-lit room.

1 a.m, 4 a.m, 6 a.m morphine. I need something stronger. My floor is rather quiet and my nurses are angels. Doctor one, doctor two, three, four and five. My GI doc speaks Arabic so we bond as we discuss my condition. It’s a quiet day and my scary white room becomes comforting and colorful with balloons, flowers and chocolates that I can’t eat ’till Monday. It’s 8:00 p.m and someone down the hall is screaming in pain. Flashbacks of my father’s screams resonate in my head as I turn my music up louder, just like I had 5 years ago.

It’s Sunday night and the final procedures start tomorrow.

Count every day, live a healthy and positive life. Although I thought I was already on that path, everything happens for a reason. There’s a natural way to combat any human complication. While I was living happily in my positive mind, my brain was neglected and needed my attention. Now a new door has opened for me to rebuild this connection, recreate my perspective, create a new lifestyle, and be a stronger, happier and more positive being than ever before.

2 Replies to “My Morphine Valentine”

  1. Pingback: Update 7.28.15 |
  2. Julia –
    I’d love to have your permission to use this narrative in my graduate seminar “Narratives in Healthcare” in the Winter quarter. J. Baglia


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