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I've been writing since I was probably 8. It's been my passion for years. I started by writing children's stories about animals that had problems and a "wise old owl" came in and helped them by delivering a catchy saying. By the time I was 12, I had written my first novel and developed more and more of a love for writing.
I grew up in a family of 10 as the second to youngest. My family means the world to me and I wouldn't trade them for anything. They've lifted me up in my writing and have encouraged me in every way. I wouldn't be where I'm at without them.
I mainly write dystopia and I seek to move and change people with my stories and concepts. I hope my writing helps you in some way, whether that be by entertaining you, moving you, or changing you.
The fact that having surgery felt normal wasn't fair. I shouldn't have been used to it, but after twelve other surgeries, I was. I was used to everything that happened a couple hours before the surgery. I would meet the nurses, then get dressed into a hospital gown, then have an IV put in, then talk to the anesthesiologist, then see Dr. Galagher. It was a routine that I was comfortable in. “We're hoping to get this over with as soon as possible because I have someplace to be afterward.” I think the doctor meant to say that with the hopes that it would comfort me, and it would be over really soon. It didn't. It made me feel more uneasy that she would then just be rushing to get it over with and could easily make a mistake. After all, it's my face they're messing with. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with it for life. When the anesthesiologist came over, he seemed very carefree and charismatic. My mom spoke with him for a few minutes: “I normally come with her into the surgical room until she falls asleep.” He laughed a little at that and I cringed. It was carefree and made me feel childish for wanting to have my mom in the room. Maybe it was a little childish. After he finished laughing, he spoke again, winking at me. “Now that she's 18, you are technically not allowed to come in with her. Besides, sometimes having parents in the room makes the patients more uneasy. So, it's probably better off if you're not there.” My stomach dropped. There was never a time when my mom was not by my side when I fell asleep for a surgery. That was when other thoughts started roaming through my head too. I'm 18, I'm going to college in a few months, I'm not gonna have my mom at all. . . I shouldn't have had that surgery in the first place. They promised that the last one I had would be the last one. But there I was. And now, they weren't letting my mom hold my hand in the surgical room. Tears started to streak down my face. I was 18, I'd been through all of this before, I should not have been crying. But I was. The nurses wiped my eyes and my mom explained to them that she normally comes with me. “Would you like us to talk to the anesthesiologist about it?” they asked. I didn't want to cause trouble and I knew that I needed to get over this, so I told them it was fine. My mom probably wasn't fine with it but being separated from her is a part of growing up. I wasn't sure if I wanted to grow up anymore. She kissed me on the cheek before they started rolling me away on the stretcher to the surgical room. Whenever I was in a surgical room, my senses seemed to be heightened and I shivered and clattered my teeth together. Everyone acted normal, talking to me about my life and I tried my best to respond without a shaky voice. They always seemed to end their sentences with my name, as if they thought it would bring me reassurance in some way. It didn't—it was just weird. You're not scared. You're not scared. Get a grip. “Your arm might sting for a few seconds, okay, Abigail?” I knew what that meant. The anesthetic was going in. They felt for a vein and put the thick needle in. A burning sensation shot up my hand. It traveled to my arm as they continued talking to me about pointless things. After a few minutes of their chatter, they asked a question which made me tense. “We're gonna put an oxygen mask on you now, okay, Abigail?” Alarm and panic shot through me like a gun. I hated oxygen masks. Maybe it was because of the times when I was too young for them to put anesthetic through an IV, so they had to use a mask. I could never forget the putrid scent of beach balls and hand sanitizer as I struggled with the nurses to get the mask off. As they put the mask on my face this time, I reminded myself that it wasn't the same. It was oxygen, not anesthetic. I forced myself to be calm but all I wanted was my mom to be holding my hand like she always did. She would wipe my tears from my face and say, “It's just oxygen. It's not gonna hurt. I'm right here, and I'll be right by your side when you wake up.” She wasn't there anymore. “Can you count down from ten for us, Abigail?” I knew what this part meant too. By the time I counted down from ten I would be unconscious, no matter how hard I wanted to fight it. “Ten.” The anesthetic burned up my arm. “Nine.” The doctors continued to chat around me. “Eight. Seven.” I shivered until something warm was placed around my body. A heated blanket—they called it the Bear Hugger. “Six. Five.” The warmth didn't stop me from shivering. Despite the amount of times I had done this, I was scared. “Four.” Everything started spinning. Don't be scared. “Three.” I could barely hear their voices anymore. “Two.” I wished my mom was there. “One.”