These are the things I remember:
Peeing a lot, so much that my grandpa bought me a training potty for our trip home from his house in Pennsylvania.
That was the last trip we took without knowing.
Wetting the bed, and being thankful that I slept on the bottom bunk.
Thinking there was something completely wrong with me and I was a baby for peeing the bed.
Being scared of that final doctor’s visit before it all changed.
Running around the doctor’s office like a banshee refusing to get my blood drawn, and the nurse giving me this little elephant that was attached to her stethoscope.
Going to school one morning, hearing them call my name on the intercom. Seeing my mom, dad, and sister waiting for little me by the exit door of school. (In my mind they are all wearing trench coats.)
Complaining the whole way to the hospital about wanting chicken.
Asking where we were going, a hundred million times.
Being admitted, meeting a boy whose name I can only remember starting with a J, too. He was also diagnosed that day.
I still had no idea what was going on.
Meeting the doctors.
The breakfast of eggs, wheat toast, cereal, milk, and juice
I ate that breakfast everyday, even when I went home, I was so hungry then.
The cable tv.
The hospital room fit for a child princess.
The saline vials, the practice classes.
My mom sleeping in my hospital room.
My father and sister coming every day after school and leaving at night when visitors hours were up.
Being scared and not knowing.
These are the things I remember.