Creative Writing Stories on Personal Experience

The bad doctor

It's Tuesday again. A day that always freaks me out. A day that I have to skip school, miss out the hangouts with my cool friends. A day that I have to spend three hours at doctor Randal's office doing nothing but feel pain.Do I have to go to the hospital? With mama wearing her worrying face, for no reason. I hate doctor Randal. He always seems to find a way to fade the smile on my face. His needles are always pointing their prickly mouths towards my behinds, ready to suck the smile and happiness out of me.With his stainless needles and steel heart. Does he even care how I feel? Or does mama do? It's like they are both out to get me. But papa is so cool. He never, I mean never dares tell me to come to this hell of a place. He never intends for me to be hurt by this doctor Randal. I feel he is my best parent. I love pap's, I mean, hello. Who wouldn't? This guy loves me. I'm confident of that. And as am thinking of him smiling, the doctor calls out my name. He wants to literary pin my smile down. And here comes the command, pants down. Behind those thick specs he wears all day, all I see is a sad man who would do anything to make others as sad. Why is my mama always on his side? Backing him up, convincing me to do whatever he says. I hate the both of them as much as I hate the stripped needle sessions. I mean, yes, I might have some slight stomach problems. The swelling and the pain. Every child does. But it seems that these two are taking me for their ride. They are enjoying this too much. It's just a stomach pain, why make it such a big deal?

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The broken home

Years have passed by, and one would think I would be used to the needle pains. It gets worse. Am yet to understand why I have to take all these shots. Every time I ask mama, her eyes get teary, so I avoid asking. I wake each day to a blood-stained bed sheet from the consistent nosebleeds. My doctors' appointments are pushed to Thursdays. I am somewhat mature so it wouldn't take a lot of nagging and begging from mama to get me to go. The stomach pains are more severe and acute. Weird enough, I wish for Thursdays. I wake up this one dull morning to find mama and papa fighting over something. Am not so sure what it is, but it sounds they are arguing about money. Before I can comprehend what is happening, being my first time to witness this, I black out. I wake up for the second time. But this time, I hear the distant rhythmical beeping. And my sheets smell like the nauseating hospital stink. I have been around long enough to know. My eyes are weak, and all I can see are blurred figures. But who wouldn't know their mama and pap's even in the darkest of alleys. And there is doctor Randal. This time, his malicious face is coated with empathy and passion. I can't explain this. "Maybe it is time he knows," the doctor says. As the present now holds, my parents are yet in another micro- argument about it. Feeling like the grown up in the room, I demand to know that which I don't yet know. Doctor Randal suggests that it would be better if I sat down. I was in bed for pits sake! There comes the bummer. I have kidney disease. I pass out for the second time. I wake up once more, but this time I am home. And just like Deja vu, they are arguing. Again. This time, it is messy. Papa grabs mama so hard and throws her over the couch. Her shirt is torn in two halves. I take a pick at her lower abdomen, and I see a scar. You know, the kind that people have for having a kidney transplant, donation or removal. Papa goes upstairs, come back with his brown leather suitcase and gives us a big goodbye. He is gone. And he doesn't forget to share his thoughts on how much of economic hazards we are to him. So am officially from a broken home, all thanks to me. Mama is now open to any questions I have.About my health of course. And I come to learn that she has only one kidney. The other was removed subsequent to its failure. This was tough to process and accept. How much can a person lose in one day? We are now facing bankruptcy and poverty due to the expensive medicals bills that mama cannot handle all by her own. She sells anything in the house that monetary value can be attached to. We end up with just a room, scattered furniture and old equipment.

To the moon and back

It's the beeping sound again. And as it turns out, they are pretty much all I hear whenever I wake up. I look up for my mama. She is always there, standing, with hope in her entire anatomy waiting for me to wake up. I can't see her there today, and I get a cold shiver on my lower abdomen. Usually, this would be from anxiety and fear, but this time it is more of an inexpressible pain than a shiver. On the next bed is my mama. What happened to her while I was out? I faintly call her, but she is no more. Mama is gone too. In a different way though because we see each other no more. She is dead. It takes me a two-day train to get there. To the point of acceptance that she is no more. The pain has numbed my nerves. It was no longer the physical pain. That I would have dealt with gradually. But losing my mama? That was something else. Doctor Randal, the only other person I see around, comes in to shed some light on all these happenings. He hands me some paperwork that indicates the donor's agreement for the surgical operations. The donor's name and signature are all noted. The name strikes me so hard. It is Bayley Smith, my lovely mom. Lying there breathless, she selflessly gave up her only kidney to guarantee my survival. For yet another time, I am the cause of my being parentless. It is so painful that I can't even feel the pain anymore. I recall the fun times we had together with mama before I was sickling. The morning aroma of blueberry pancakes, the weekend afternoons at the park and the night stories before I could fall asleep amidst her narrations. The kidney disease has taken so much from us. The later stages have worn me out completely. I have lost my friends, my weight, and my hair in that order. The routine checkups have significantly turned into daily medical treatments, and now I am bedridden. I feel like I have lost my identity when I stare at my dead mother, but she has given me a guarantee that she will forever be a part of me. Or I am a part of her. I mean, I pee because of her, kidding. Every morning mama came into my room, woke me up and her morning greetings were, "I love you to the moon and back." Well, she was gone to the moon, I believe, and I am confident she will be back.