December 2018

  In the middle of Ms. Imura’s lectures on geometry, I rested my head on my palms, with my elbows on the desk, and tried not to fall asleep. My eyelids felt like elephants. I got home from school and curled up on the couch. The room was spinning. My vision was double. And then I fell asleep. “Do you feel okay?” my mother asked. “Are you getting enough sleep?” my father wanted to know. At school the next day, I threw up on my clothes. The teacher stopped class and said, “Sophia, you should go to the nurse.” Shortly after that, the nurse asked me, “How do you feel?” “Not well,” I told her, so she sent me home. That day, I climbed the stairs and curled up in my bed again and slept through the whole day. On Saturday, I took more naps. My parents looked at me as if I were going to die at any moment and suddenly decided to speed me off to the hospital, where doctors and nurses put me in a bed and gave me a little, white teddy bear. It was a decently big room with giant machines and tubes and computers. There was a small table beside the bed where I put my stuff. There was even a TV in the room, so I could watch Bunk’d and Mickey Mouse . Also, there was a bathroom with a shower in the room. Out the window, I could see trees and the Stanford Shopping Mall. I had a needle poked in my skin and a tube connecting it to the IV. When I went to the bathroom, the nurse had to roll the “little metal tower” with me. Finally, the doctor said, “You have type 1 diabetes.” That meant my pancreas didn’t make enough insulin to let the sugar go to the cells and make energy. She explained that I would have to check my blood sugar before every meal and take shots. When I heard that I had to take shots, I felt frustrated. I didn’t want to take three or four shots every day before I ate! I imagined myself covered with dots. And even more, needles pricking my fingers just so I would know if my blood sugar was stable. Three weeks later, I have gotten used to pricking my fingers to check my blood sugar and counting carbs, so I’ll know how much insulin I need. At lunch, I miss sharing snacks with my friends, like potato chips and fruit roll-ups. Now I just eat rice, vegetables, fruit, and milk. Ten minutes before I eat, I have to check my blood sugar to make sure that my insulin is at the right level. If I could go back and change anything, I would not have diabetes. However, I can’t change that. Instead, I just have to get used to it and pay more attention to my health. Sophia Fu, 9Belmont, CA Sage Millen, 10Vancouver, BC, Canada

  Allergies A lot of people have allergies. Allergies to gluten, nuts, and eggs. I have allergies to a lot of things like nuts, seafood, eggs, and gluten. The list goes on and on. You’re probably thinking how I can survive or if I’m lying, but I’m not. I’m alive. I deal with the consequences of being an allergic person. I’ve never tasted a gooey chocolate fudge cake with gluten in it on my birthday.  I’ve never had scrambled eggs on a Saturday morning, as the sun shines through my window. I deal with it. This is my life. I can’t grieve about how sad it is that I cannot eat certain foods. It’s a weight that I’ve carried on my back for years. It’s a barrier to enjoying things in life. It holds me back like a parent holds their child back from danger. In my life, having allergies is like a black stain on a white shirt that you can’t wash off. It can stay there for an eternity.   EpiPen Click. The sound of the practice EpiPen makes as my mom plunges it into her thigh. For days, I’ve been dreading doing this. An EpiPen is a hero who saves people from allergic reactions. This is what the stories of kids being saved by their EpiPens have made me think. In the back of my mind, I know it is a shot that you have to plunge into your thigh. My mom speaks, and it snaps me out of my thoughts. “Now that I showed you how to do this, you can try. It has no needle, so it won’t hurt,” she says to me. I take the EpiPen in my hand. The green color is inviting and almost seems friendly, but that won’t fool me. The part of my thigh throbs, as I think about how much it would hurt if this was a real shot. Deep breaths, I tell myself. This will save your life someday. It shakes in my hand. Ten seconds. Just ten seconds. Hold it only for ten seconds. It doesn’t have a needle, so it won’t hurt. It will be fine. My thoughts go through my head as fast as a jet plane. I drop the fake shot. I can’t do it. Even though it will save me, even though it is fake, I will not stab this shot in my leg for ten seconds. I will have to, or I might die. “I will, I will, I will, I will,” I mumble, as I fall asleep. I will.   Birthdays “Ooh! What did you bring?” says a classmate. The birthday boy walks to the back of the room with a bag. He holds it close to him. It’s as if there is a priceless artifact sitting in a display case inside of it. People crowd around him trying to get a peek at what’s in the bag. “Cupcakes!” someone yells and is immediately scolded by the teacher. The birthday boy chooses people to pass out the treats. In my head, I picture the creamy frosting covered with rainbow sprinkles and soft cake underneath. No. I can’t eat that. Can I? Nope. It contains wheat. Darn it! “Hi! What flavor would you like?” says a boy who is handing out the treats. “Oh. I’m okay. I’m allergic to that. I brought my own treat though,” I answer. “Oh. Okay,” he mumbles, looking disappointed. Wait, it’s pity. “What are you allergic to?” he asks. As I go down the list, his eyes go wide. “Wow,” he says. “You’re allergic to everything!” I look for some tone of a joke, but instead, I find that it is a statement. My cheeks burn, and I clench my fists so hard, it hurts. He walks away, leaving me to sulk about this for the whole party. Everything. The way he said it made my anger flare out. If I was allergic to everything, I would be dead. Nobody has ever said that to me before. I’m allergic to everything. I bet I’ll be on the news. “The Girl Who is Allergic to Everything.”   Twizzler Twist “Hey. Do you want a Twizzler?” asks a teacher. I look at the shiny twist of red color. I can smell the sweet aroma coming from the package of Twizzlers. I hesitate a little. Am I allergic to this? No. The teacher wouldn’t give it to me if I was allergic. It calls to me, and I slowly inch towards the smell. “Sure!” I exclaim. I can’t wait to try one! I unwrap the packaging and take a giant bite out of the sweet candy. A burst of flavor burns its way down my throat. It tastes delectable. After I finish my treat, I go back to play. After a while, my throat starts itching. My mind races, and I start to panic. This has never happened before! I shrug it off, and I figure it will go away. A few minutes later, my skin starts itching. It’s like a million ants crawled under my clothes and started biting me. I need a teacher. I stand up, but I stumble because a wave of dizziness hits me. I feel as though I’ve been on a roller coaster that goes in a loop-de-loop for hours. I slowly make my way to where the teachers are standing. “What’s wrong?” one asks. “I don’t know,” I say, panicked. In a few minutes, my mom comes bursting into the room like a madwoman. Worry is present on her features, and I immediately feel sympathy. She must be so worried. I spill the beans. “I’m so itchy, and I don’t know what’s happening!” I exclaim. I start to tear up, and then I begin to cry. My mom hands me a medicine cup with pink liquid in it that I identify as Benadryl. I curl up into a ball, and I sob. Why does this happen to me?   Cake Mistake Before bed,