Personal Narrative: The Critical Care Unit

As a child the sight of an ambulance would send shivers down my spine, the flashing lights and loud horn, the panic as cars comes to a stop, and the terrifying events that followed. Being a witness to such commotion never seemed as horrendous until I became the person inside the ambulance. After experiencing headaches, sore throat, shortness of breath, and the lack of ability to move my left arm my parents sent out a distressed call to the paramedics who then rushed me into the E.R. Within the hour I was no longer on a gurney, but instead was on a hospital bed, tangled in color-coded wires to keep me alive. Hours passed, possibly even days, when I opened my eyes, only to find the words “ Sabrina’s room” on a dashboard in big pink letters. Injected into my left arm was an IV tube that dispensed antibiotic fluids into my suffering body. As I turned my head to look into the mirror I saw that my hair was shaved and a scar remained with staples over it, forming into the shape of an arc.

Each day began with the nurse checking my vitals and ended with a written report of my progress. I was later moved to the surgical floor where I gained a bit of hope as I met my physical therapist that helped me restore my balance. I wouldn't be stuck in a hospital room for the rest of my life but would go out and embrace the world I was missing so much of. My time being there, I often requested class work from school to be delivered, so I wouldn't be behind on my studies. Gradually becoming a healthier person, my release from the hospital didn't mean my life would be like before. I was the furthest thing from normal as I went through dreadful follow-ups and Rehabilitation