Essay #20
The coin some people associate with good luck nearly took my life. For years after a horrific preschool incident, whenever I saw the circular, copper coins my heart beat faster, my vision started to fade, and suddenly an image appeared in my mind: my back spasmed as I gasped for air on a white stretcher. I vividly remember the events that led up to the traumatic moment, but I also remember the heroic medical team that saved my life.
It was a regular day at my daycare. Since it was extremely cold outside, recess was indoors, and I was fascinated by the pretend money in a gray plastic cash register. I counted the toy dollars and separated the dimes and quarters into sections, but in the mix of coins, I saw a plastic penny that glittered in the ray of sunlight shining through the window as if tiny specks of sugar were ingrained on its surface. As an inquisitive five-year-old, I placed it on my tongue. In a couple minutes, I realized that I accidentally swallowed the coin. A high-pitched sound emerged from my throat that made me sound like a frightened racoon. By that time, everyone was getting ready to take a nap, so our teacher placed blankets on the floor and dimmed the lights. The teacher thought I was trying to cause a commotion, so she put me in time-out. Finally, she realized I was choking and called 911 and my parents. Fifteen minutes later, my vision faded in and out in an ambulance. My parents looked horrified; tears streamed down their faces as they clung to each other. I heard loud sirens, but the overwhelming sensation I had felt like a loud alarm clock pulsating in my head. I instinctively reached up to my throat. I was unable to swallow or speak, and it felt like everything was spinning around me.
At the emergency room, there was a strong, sterile smell of disinfectant. I opened and closed my eyes repeatedly, and I saw black spots appear on the bright hospital walls. I pointed toward my throat hoping someone would notice the pain I was in. Before the operation began, the surgeon told me, “Everything will be okay.” The lights were tinted blue, and there were various types of surgical instruments on the desk beside me. My pain was getting worse and felt like sharp volts of electricity in my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed another medical professional. Soon after she came to my gurney and put a mask over my face, everything faded to black.
The rhythm of the monitor awoke me from my state of tranquility. I rubbed the spot where the coin was lodged and felt a bandage. When I tried to speak, my voice was hoarse, and my throat felt as dry as the Sahara. My mind was still spinning, trying to understand everything that happened; I could still picture the penny stuck in my throat. I was fascinated at the lightning bolt shape of the scar in the middle of my neck as I looked at myself in the mirror. Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt an immense amount of appreciation for the surgeons who saved my life. After the surgery, I developed an acute fear of pennies. The flashbacks occurred less frequently after I talked about my fear of pennies with a therapist for several months.
My gratitude toward the doctors inspired me to pursue a career in healthcare. My fascination with the heart and distressing childhood experience inspired me to volunteer at Medstar Washington Hospital Center this past summer, rounding patients in the Cardiology, Medical/Surgical Unit. My goal is to become a pediatric cardiologist, so I can relieve children’s pain and have the kind of impact on them that my surgeon had on me.