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I was bored, so I looked at my old files I had stored in my computer. I found this. A story which I had kepton a floppy from some work at school.
This was when I cut my arm. I was 8 years old.
We ran to the door, for our grandmother had come to visit us. We were so overjoyed to see her and tell her about our adventures during summer, we did not notice what she had brought us. We began telling her how fast I could ride on my bike and how long I could stay underwater.
When my brother began to talk to her about his adventures, I detected a blue, plastic bag. I tried to peep in the bag without being noticed. I failed to do this so I innocently asked my grandmother what she had in the plastic bag. She refused to tell me, but I begged her until she made up her mind.
She took out a neatly wrapped package which I recognized from a famous pastry shop. My brother and I stared while she opened the package; our mouths were watering, for the shop only had food we adored. Open, we saw strange-looking, but scrumptious buns!
We immediately began to eat them. They were delicious! They had sugar on the surface and full of cream. They looked like doughnuts at first place, but they were much nicer.
When we had finished she left. We thanked her at the door before going down the lift.
All this happened on a Friday, just after school. My father came home at half past four, without having had lunch. He sat together with my mother at the dining room, eating lunch.
Meanwhile, my brother and I began to argue about who would be first to use the computer. After a while of squalling, I began to chase my brother through the house, full of anger. We ran through the living room, my parent’s room, and reached the kitchen. We circled around the table. We then dashed through the corridor, against a swinging glass door. My brother pushed the door open and then smashed it back closed. I, who was running behind him, put my right arm to stop the door an open it to pass through, but as my brother had pushed it back so hard, and I put my hand on the fragile crystal to stop it, the crystal broke. My arm broke into the crystal, cutting through my forearm. I took my arm out and saw a giant cut from my wrist running down nearly until my elbow. I didn’t feel pain or anything. I was only frightened, very frightened. I began to scream, and ran to my parents. My father immediately held the cut close, while my mother went to the kitchen to fetch a bandage. They wrapped the bandage tightly around my arm and rushed to the street. I wasn’t wearing shoes so my father carried me. We quickly ran to fetch a taxi so he could take us quickly to the hospital.
In the car, we all were a little more relaxed. I hadn’t felt pain or anything else, because I was so shaken. I didn’t even cry. Everybody in the car was very nervous (including the taxi driver).
When we reached the hospital, my mother stayed behind while paying the taxi driver. My father and I ran to emergencies. When we entered the hospital; my father’s shirt was stained with blood, the nurses saw us and immediately took us to a surgery room.
I lay down on a bed. A doctor came into the small room, and opened the bandages. He looked at my arm. I preferred not to look because I would begin to be dizzy. He examined my arm carefully. He searched for any crystals and then he told me to move my fingers to see if I had cut any tendon, but I could move them easily. At last he saw I had cut a sensibility nerve. This nerve gives sensibility to the thumb, the index and the middle finger. He poked my fingers with needles but I didn’t feel them.
They then cured my wound, bandaged my arm better and took me to a normal room. There, I phoned all my family and told them what had happened. They all thought it was a silly prank, but at last they all believed me. Some of them came to see me.
In my room, I was quite excited because I would bite my fingers and they wouldn’t hurt!
Two hours later, a specialized surgeon came to visit me. He also poked me with needles. Although I did not feel it, I still didn’t like people poking me with needles.
He left the room and two nurses came. They carried an object which appears in my worst nightmares: an injection. They came to take some blood away. They held my hand and tried to take some blood. It didn’t work. They tried exactly seventeen times to take blood from my hand, but it didn’t work. It was very painful. As they had failed to find blood in my hand, they tried to take blood from my foot. I thought this was rather uncanny. They took my foot and began to try to take blood from there. That was even worse than before, because they were poking me directly in the bone. After twenty-one times, they gave up. They had failed to take blood from me.
I continued to rest for a while with my family when we were interrupted by a pair of surgeons. They were coming to take me for an operation.
They undressed and took me downstairs on a bed. I was feeling very nervous; this was the first time I cried.
They took me down by an elevator, and into the operating room. A very kind surgeon asked me how I wanted my anaesthetics. He gave me three options: an injection, a pill or a strong smelling gas. I obviously chose the gas because I was fed up of injections and I hated pills. They put a mask over my mouth and told me to breathe deeply. At the fifth breath I fell asleep.
I was woken up in my room by my family. I wanted to go back to sleep because the anaesthetic still hadn’t worn off. They told my father I had to stay awake for an hour. He tried to hold my eyes open, but I still went to sleep.
My father stayed with me during the night. I woke up several times to urinate the anaesthetic. I could not go to the bathroom because I was in bed with serum.
I woke up the next morning and saw my arm was bandaged and also had plaster. I had two minute tubes into my arm that gave me serum. My father woke up immediately after me. He told me that the operation had lasted two whole hours. They had stitched the nerve together and then closed my arm by stitching again.
He called the nurses and they took the serum off. I was feeling quite hungry, so my father asked a nurse if I could have any breakfast. A while later the nurse came to my room with a small plastic cup full of camomile. I looked at the cup disgusted. I expected them to give me something half decent and they brought me that!
A while after my mother came to see me. I told her about the camomile, so she went downstairs to a nurse. She asked the nurse if I could eat something. She said I could, so my mum went out to the street.
A few minutes later she came back with a pot of hot milk and a croissant. That made me happy again. I ate it all and got dressed. My parents had to help me put them on because I had some difficulty with my arm. The plaster was cast in a strange way; it was slightly curved around the wrist.
Later that morning, they let me go home. On the way home, we bought an arm sling in a chemist’s shop.
I rested at home for two weeks. During that time I had many visits. My brother used to bring home some schoolwork and homework to do. It kept me busy during the evenings, and it took me more time to do it because I had to use my left hand. One of my first pieces of work was a maths test!
The days I had the cast on made normal life difficult. I had two take showers with a plastic bag on my arm and trying not to wet it either. I also needed help to dress myself.
Around the eighteenth of May I went back to school. I still had the cast on. My friends and teachers were glad to see me again. The first days I struggled a little while writing with my left hand.
Two weeks later, they took my cast off. Just when they took my arm out of the cast, I saw how thin it was. They had to take away the staples they had put on. They bandaged it, because it looked rather horrible.
A few days passed and my arm was getting better, so they took the bandage off. Now, I could really see how long the cut was. I realised it wasn’t only one cut, but four. The biggest one ran down diagonally from my wrist to my elbow. Beside that one I had another, but that was quite smaller. Then I had two other small ones; one near my elbow and the other on the side of my arm, nearly touching my little finger.
In school I showed my friends and they were amazed. The teachers were amazed too, especially the science one.
The doctors had told us I had to go to the hospital everyday for an hour to do rehabilitation. This was a very strange place, full of old people and adults. When I got in I had to lie down on a bed and a nurse would put a kind of wet sponge that gave me electric impulses. This was to stimulate my nerve. Then I went into a room which looked more like a fitness centre than anything else. There were weights, bicycles and other complex machines. I usually sat down with a nurse and did exercises with my fingers. I had to press stress balls and press tweezers open. This was a nightmare for me because my fingers were weak and still didn’t feel much. I sometimes also had to use weights, and rode on the bicycle until my mother came to pick me up. All this helped my sensibility to improve. And I really did notice the change, for when I finished the month of rehabilitation I had nearly recuperated all the sensibility in my fingers.
In school I was already able to write with my right hand again. Everything was back to normal again.
This was when I cut my arm. I was 8 years old.
We ran to the door, for our grandmother had come to visit us. We were so overjoyed to see her and tell her about our adventures during summer, we did not notice what she had brought us. We began telling her how fast I could ride on my bike and how long I could stay underwater.
When my brother began to talk to her about his adventures, I detected a blue, plastic bag. I tried to peep in the bag without being noticed. I failed to do this so I innocently asked my grandmother what she had in the plastic bag. She refused to tell me, but I begged her until she made up her mind.
She took out a neatly wrapped package which I recognized from a famous pastry shop. My brother and I stared while she opened the package; our mouths were watering, for the shop only had food we adored. Open, we saw strange-looking, but scrumptious buns!
We immediately began to eat them. They were delicious! They had sugar on the surface and full of cream. They looked like doughnuts at first place, but they were much nicer.
When we had finished she left. We thanked her at the door before going down the lift.
All this happened on a Friday, just after school. My father came home at half past four, without having had lunch. He sat together with my mother at the dining room, eating lunch.
Meanwhile, my brother and I began to argue about who would be first to use the computer. After a while of squalling, I began to chase my brother through the house, full of anger. We ran through the living room, my parent’s room, and reached the kitchen. We circled around the table. We then dashed through the corridor, against a swinging glass door. My brother pushed the door open and then smashed it back closed. I, who was running behind him, put my right arm to stop the door an open it to pass through, but as my brother had pushed it back so hard, and I put my hand on the fragile crystal to stop it, the crystal broke. My arm broke into the crystal, cutting through my forearm. I took my arm out and saw a giant cut from my wrist running down nearly until my elbow. I didn’t feel pain or anything. I was only frightened, very frightened. I began to scream, and ran to my parents. My father immediately held the cut close, while my mother went to the kitchen to fetch a bandage. They wrapped the bandage tightly around my arm and rushed to the street. I wasn’t wearing shoes so my father carried me. We quickly ran to fetch a taxi so he could take us quickly to the hospital.
In the car, we all were a little more relaxed. I hadn’t felt pain or anything else, because I was so shaken. I didn’t even cry. Everybody in the car was very nervous (including the taxi driver).
When we reached the hospital, my mother stayed behind while paying the taxi driver. My father and I ran to emergencies. When we entered the hospital; my father’s shirt was stained with blood, the nurses saw us and immediately took us to a surgery room.
I lay down on a bed. A doctor came into the small room, and opened the bandages. He looked at my arm. I preferred not to look because I would begin to be dizzy. He examined my arm carefully. He searched for any crystals and then he told me to move my fingers to see if I had cut any tendon, but I could move them easily. At last he saw I had cut a sensibility nerve. This nerve gives sensibility to the thumb, the index and the middle finger. He poked my fingers with needles but I didn’t feel them.
They then cured my wound, bandaged my arm better and took me to a normal room. There, I phoned all my family and told them what had happened. They all thought it was a silly prank, but at last they all believed me. Some of them came to see me.
In my room, I was quite excited because I would bite my fingers and they wouldn’t hurt!
Two hours later, a specialized surgeon came to visit me. He also poked me with needles. Although I did not feel it, I still didn’t like people poking me with needles.
He left the room and two nurses came. They carried an object which appears in my worst nightmares: an injection. They came to take some blood away. They held my hand and tried to take some blood. It didn’t work. They tried exactly seventeen times to take blood from my hand, but it didn’t work. It was very painful. As they had failed to find blood in my hand, they tried to take blood from my foot. I thought this was rather uncanny. They took my foot and began to try to take blood from there. That was even worse than before, because they were poking me directly in the bone. After twenty-one times, they gave up. They had failed to take blood from me.
I continued to rest for a while with my family when we were interrupted by a pair of surgeons. They were coming to take me for an operation.
They undressed and took me downstairs on a bed. I was feeling very nervous; this was the first time I cried.
They took me down by an elevator, and into the operating room. A very kind surgeon asked me how I wanted my anaesthetics. He gave me three options: an injection, a pill or a strong smelling gas. I obviously chose the gas because I was fed up of injections and I hated pills. They put a mask over my mouth and told me to breathe deeply. At the fifth breath I fell asleep.
I was woken up in my room by my family. I wanted to go back to sleep because the anaesthetic still hadn’t worn off. They told my father I had to stay awake for an hour. He tried to hold my eyes open, but I still went to sleep.
My father stayed with me during the night. I woke up several times to urinate the anaesthetic. I could not go to the bathroom because I was in bed with serum.
I woke up the next morning and saw my arm was bandaged and also had plaster. I had two minute tubes into my arm that gave me serum. My father woke up immediately after me. He told me that the operation had lasted two whole hours. They had stitched the nerve together and then closed my arm by stitching again.
He called the nurses and they took the serum off. I was feeling quite hungry, so my father asked a nurse if I could have any breakfast. A while later the nurse came to my room with a small plastic cup full of camomile. I looked at the cup disgusted. I expected them to give me something half decent and they brought me that!
A while after my mother came to see me. I told her about the camomile, so she went downstairs to a nurse. She asked the nurse if I could eat something. She said I could, so my mum went out to the street.
A few minutes later she came back with a pot of hot milk and a croissant. That made me happy again. I ate it all and got dressed. My parents had to help me put them on because I had some difficulty with my arm. The plaster was cast in a strange way; it was slightly curved around the wrist.
Later that morning, they let me go home. On the way home, we bought an arm sling in a chemist’s shop.
I rested at home for two weeks. During that time I had many visits. My brother used to bring home some schoolwork and homework to do. It kept me busy during the evenings, and it took me more time to do it because I had to use my left hand. One of my first pieces of work was a maths test!
The days I had the cast on made normal life difficult. I had two take showers with a plastic bag on my arm and trying not to wet it either. I also needed help to dress myself.
Around the eighteenth of May I went back to school. I still had the cast on. My friends and teachers were glad to see me again. The first days I struggled a little while writing with my left hand.
Two weeks later, they took my cast off. Just when they took my arm out of the cast, I saw how thin it was. They had to take away the staples they had put on. They bandaged it, because it looked rather horrible.
A few days passed and my arm was getting better, so they took the bandage off. Now, I could really see how long the cut was. I realised it wasn’t only one cut, but four. The biggest one ran down diagonally from my wrist to my elbow. Beside that one I had another, but that was quite smaller. Then I had two other small ones; one near my elbow and the other on the side of my arm, nearly touching my little finger.
In school I showed my friends and they were amazed. The teachers were amazed too, especially the science one.
The doctors had told us I had to go to the hospital everyday for an hour to do rehabilitation. This was a very strange place, full of old people and adults. When I got in I had to lie down on a bed and a nurse would put a kind of wet sponge that gave me electric impulses. This was to stimulate my nerve. Then I went into a room which looked more like a fitness centre than anything else. There were weights, bicycles and other complex machines. I usually sat down with a nurse and did exercises with my fingers. I had to press stress balls and press tweezers open. This was a nightmare for me because my fingers were weak and still didn’t feel much. I sometimes also had to use weights, and rode on the bicycle until my mother came to pick me up. All this helped my sensibility to improve. And I really did notice the change, for when I finished the month of rehabilitation I had nearly recuperated all the sensibility in my fingers.
In school I was already able to write with my right hand again. Everything was back to normal again.
Thanks! :^>
"In my room, I was quite excited because I would bite my fingers and they wouldn’t hurt!"
Best thing I've ever read. Ever.
This is why people should learn to read.
Best thing I've ever read. Ever.
This is why people should learn to read.
Yeah it is quite true. I have the 13 cm long scar still on my arm.
Is that true?
This was an essay for school if somebody asks.
I was bored, so I looked at my old files I had stored in my computer. I found this. A story which I had kepton a floppy from some work at school.
This was when I cut my arm. I was 8 years old.
We ran to the door, for our grandmother had come to visit us. We were so overjoyed to see her and tell her about our adventures during summer, we did not notice what she had brought us. We began telling her how fast I could ride on my bike and how long I could stay underwater.
When my brother began to talk to her about his adventures, I detected a blue, plastic bag. I tried to peep in the bag without being noticed. I failed to do this so I innocently asked my grandmother what she had in the plastic bag. She refused to tell me, but I begged her until she made up her mind.
She took out a neatly wrapped package which I recognized from a famous pastry shop. My brother and I stared while she opened the package; our mouths were watering, for the shop only had food we adored. Open, we saw strange-looking, but scrumptious buns!
We immediately began to eat them. They were delicious! They had sugar on the surface and full of cream. They looked like doughnuts at first place, but they were much nicer.
When we had finished she left. We thanked her at the door before going down the lift.
All this happened on a Friday, just after school. My father came home at half past four, without having had lunch. He sat together with my mother at the dining room, eating lunch.
Meanwhile, my brother and I began to argue about who would be first to use the computer. After a while of squalling, I began to chase my brother through the house, full of anger. We ran through the living room, my parent’s room, and reached the kitchen. We circled around the table. We then dashed through the corridor, against a swinging glass door. My brother pushed the door open and then smashed it back closed. I, who was running behind him, put my right arm to stop the door an open it to pass through, but as my brother had pushed it back so hard, and I put my hand on the fragile crystal to stop it, the crystal broke. My arm broke into the crystal, cutting through my forearm. I took my arm out and saw a giant cut from my wrist running down nearly until my elbow. I didn’t feel pain or anything. I was only frightened, very frightened. I began to scream, and ran to my parents. My father immediately held the cut close, while my mother went to the kitchen to fetch a bandage. They wrapped the bandage tightly around my arm and rushed to the street. I wasn’t wearing shoes so my father carried me. We quickly ran to fetch a taxi so he could take us quickly to the hospital.
In the car, we all were a little more relaxed. I hadn’t felt pain or anything else, because I was so shaken. I didn’t even cry. Everybody in the car was very nervous (including the taxi driver).
When we reached the hospital, my mother stayed behind while paying the taxi driver. My father and I ran to emergencies. When we entered the hospital; my father’s shirt was stained with blood, the nurses saw us and immediately took us to a surgery room.
I lay down on a bed. A doctor came into the small room, and opened the bandages. He looked at my arm. I preferred not to look because I would begin to be dizzy. He examined my arm carefully. He searched for any crystals and then he told me to move my fingers to see if I had cut any tendon, but I could move them easily. At last he saw I had cut a sensibility nerve. This nerve gives sensibility to the thumb, the index and the middle finger. He poked my fingers with needles but I didn’t feel them.
They then cured my wound, bandaged my arm better and took me to a normal room. There, I phoned all my family and told them what had happened. They all thought it was a silly prank, but at last they all believed me. Some of them came to see me.
In my room, I was quite excited because I would bite my fingers and they wouldn’t hurt!
Two hours later, a specialized surgeon came to visit me. He also poked me with needles. Although I did not feel it, I still didn’t like people poking me with needles.
He left the room and two nurses came. They carried an object which appears in my worst nightmares: an injection. They came to take some blood away. They held my hand and tried to take some blood. It didn’t work. They tried exactly seventeen times to take blood from my hand, but it didn’t work. It was very painful. As they had failed to find blood in my hand, they tried to take blood from my foot. I thought this was rather uncanny. They took my foot and began to try to take blood from there. That was even worse than before, because they were poking me directly in the bone. After twenty-one times, they gave up. They had failed to take blood from me.
I continued to rest for a while with my family when we were interrupted by a pair of surgeons. They were coming to take me for an operation.
They undressed and took me downstairs on a bed. I was feeling very nervous; this was the first time I cried.
They took me down by an elevator, and into the operating room. A very kind surgeon asked me how I wanted my anaesthetics. He gave me three options: an injection, a pill or a strong smelling gas. I obviously chose the gas because I was fed up of injections and I hated pills. They put a mask over my mouth and told me to breathe deeply. At the fifth breath I fell asleep.
I was woken up in my room by my family. I wanted to go back to sleep because the anaesthetic still hadn’t worn off. They told my father I had to stay awake for an hour. He tried to hold my eyes open, but I still went to sleep.
My father stayed with me during the night. I woke up several times to urinate the anaesthetic. I could not go to the bathroom because I was in bed with serum.
I woke up the next morning and saw my arm was bandaged and also had plaster. I had two minute tubes into my arm that gave me serum. My father woke up immediately after me. He told me that the operation had lasted two whole hours. They had stitched the nerve together and then closed my arm by stitching again.
He called the nurses and they took the serum off. I was feeling quite hungry, so my father asked a nurse if I could have any breakfast. A while later the nurse came to my room with a small plastic cup full of camomile. I looked at the cup disgusted. I expected them to give me something half decent and they brought me that!
A while after my mother came to see me. I told her about the camomile, so she went downstairs to a nurse. She asked the nurse if I could eat something. She said I could, so my mum went out to the street.
A few minutes later she came back with a pot of hot milk and a croissant. That made me happy again. I ate it all and got dressed. My parents had to help me put them on because I had some difficulty with my arm. The plaster was cast in a strange way; it was slightly curved around the wrist.
Later that morning, they let me go home. On the way home, we bought an arm sling in a chemist’s shop.
I rested at home for two weeks. During that time I had many visits. My brother used to bring home some schoolwork and homework to do. It kept me busy during the evenings, and it took me more time to do it because I had to use my left hand. One of my first pieces of work was a maths test!
The days I had the cast on made normal life difficult. I had two take showers with a plastic bag on my arm and trying not to wet it either. I also needed help to dress myself.
Around the eighteenth of May I went back to school. I still had the cast on. My friends and teachers were glad to see me again. The first days I struggled a little while writing with my left hand.
Two weeks later, they took my cast off. Just when they took my arm out of the cast, I saw how thin it was. They had to take away the staples they had put on. They bandaged it, because it looked rather horrible.
A few days passed and my arm was getting better, so they took the bandage off. Now, I could really see how long the cut was. I realised it wasn’t only one cut, but four. The biggest one ran down diagonally from my wrist to my elbow. Beside that one I had another, but that was quite smaller. Then I had two other small ones; one near my elbow and the other on the side of my arm, nearly touching my little finger.
In school I showed my friends and they were amazed. The teachers were amazed too, especially the science one.
The doctors had told us I had to go to the hospital everyday for an hour to do rehabilitation. This was a very strange place, full of old people and adults. When I got in I had to lie down on a bed and a nurse would put a kind of wet sponge that gave me electric impulses. This was to stimulate my nerve. Then I went into a room which looked more like a fitness centre than anything else. There were weights, bicycles and other complex machines. I usually sat down with a nurse and did exercises with my fingers. I had to press stress balls and press tweezers open. This was a nightmare for me because my fingers were weak and still didn’t feel much. I sometimes also had to use weights, and rode on the bicycle until my mother came to pick me up. All this helped my sensibility to improve. And I really did notice the change, for when I finished the month of rehabilitation I had nearly recuperated all the sensibility in my fingers.
In school I was already able to write with my right hand again. Everything was back to normal again.
This was when I cut my arm. I was 8 years old.
We ran to the door, for our grandmother had come to visit us. We were so overjoyed to see her and tell her about our adventures during summer, we did not notice what she had brought us. We began telling her how fast I could ride on my bike and how long I could stay underwater.
When my brother began to talk to her about his adventures, I detected a blue, plastic bag. I tried to peep in the bag without being noticed. I failed to do this so I innocently asked my grandmother what she had in the plastic bag. She refused to tell me, but I begged her until she made up her mind.
She took out a neatly wrapped package which I recognized from a famous pastry shop. My brother and I stared while she opened the package; our mouths were watering, for the shop only had food we adored. Open, we saw strange-looking, but scrumptious buns!
We immediately began to eat them. They were delicious! They had sugar on the surface and full of cream. They looked like doughnuts at first place, but they were much nicer.
When we had finished she left. We thanked her at the door before going down the lift.
All this happened on a Friday, just after school. My father came home at half past four, without having had lunch. He sat together with my mother at the dining room, eating lunch.
Meanwhile, my brother and I began to argue about who would be first to use the computer. After a while of squalling, I began to chase my brother through the house, full of anger. We ran through the living room, my parent’s room, and reached the kitchen. We circled around the table. We then dashed through the corridor, against a swinging glass door. My brother pushed the door open and then smashed it back closed. I, who was running behind him, put my right arm to stop the door an open it to pass through, but as my brother had pushed it back so hard, and I put my hand on the fragile crystal to stop it, the crystal broke. My arm broke into the crystal, cutting through my forearm. I took my arm out and saw a giant cut from my wrist running down nearly until my elbow. I didn’t feel pain or anything. I was only frightened, very frightened. I began to scream, and ran to my parents. My father immediately held the cut close, while my mother went to the kitchen to fetch a bandage. They wrapped the bandage tightly around my arm and rushed to the street. I wasn’t wearing shoes so my father carried me. We quickly ran to fetch a taxi so he could take us quickly to the hospital.
In the car, we all were a little more relaxed. I hadn’t felt pain or anything else, because I was so shaken. I didn’t even cry. Everybody in the car was very nervous (including the taxi driver).
When we reached the hospital, my mother stayed behind while paying the taxi driver. My father and I ran to emergencies. When we entered the hospital; my father’s shirt was stained with blood, the nurses saw us and immediately took us to a surgery room.
I lay down on a bed. A doctor came into the small room, and opened the bandages. He looked at my arm. I preferred not to look because I would begin to be dizzy. He examined my arm carefully. He searched for any crystals and then he told me to move my fingers to see if I had cut any tendon, but I could move them easily. At last he saw I had cut a sensibility nerve. This nerve gives sensibility to the thumb, the index and the middle finger. He poked my fingers with needles but I didn’t feel them.
They then cured my wound, bandaged my arm better and took me to a normal room. There, I phoned all my family and told them what had happened. They all thought it was a silly prank, but at last they all believed me. Some of them came to see me.
In my room, I was quite excited because I would bite my fingers and they wouldn’t hurt!
Two hours later, a specialized surgeon came to visit me. He also poked me with needles. Although I did not feel it, I still didn’t like people poking me with needles.
He left the room and two nurses came. They carried an object which appears in my worst nightmares: an injection. They came to take some blood away. They held my hand and tried to take some blood. It didn’t work. They tried exactly seventeen times to take blood from my hand, but it didn’t work. It was very painful. As they had failed to find blood in my hand, they tried to take blood from my foot. I thought this was rather uncanny. They took my foot and began to try to take blood from there. That was even worse than before, because they were poking me directly in the bone. After twenty-one times, they gave up. They had failed to take blood from me.
I continued to rest for a while with my family when we were interrupted by a pair of surgeons. They were coming to take me for an operation.
They undressed and took me downstairs on a bed. I was feeling very nervous; this was the first time I cried.
They took me down by an elevator, and into the operating room. A very kind surgeon asked me how I wanted my anaesthetics. He gave me three options: an injection, a pill or a strong smelling gas. I obviously chose the gas because I was fed up of injections and I hated pills. They put a mask over my mouth and told me to breathe deeply. At the fifth breath I fell asleep.
I was woken up in my room by my family. I wanted to go back to sleep because the anaesthetic still hadn’t worn off. They told my father I had to stay awake for an hour. He tried to hold my eyes open, but I still went to sleep.
My father stayed with me during the night. I woke up several times to urinate the anaesthetic. I could not go to the bathroom because I was in bed with serum.
I woke up the next morning and saw my arm was bandaged and also had plaster. I had two minute tubes into my arm that gave me serum. My father woke up immediately after me. He told me that the operation had lasted two whole hours. They had stitched the nerve together and then closed my arm by stitching again.
He called the nurses and they took the serum off. I was feeling quite hungry, so my father asked a nurse if I could have any breakfast. A while later the nurse came to my room with a small plastic cup full of camomile. I looked at the cup disgusted. I expected them to give me something half decent and they brought me that!
A while after my mother came to see me. I told her about the camomile, so she went downstairs to a nurse. She asked the nurse if I could eat something. She said I could, so my mum went out to the street.
A few minutes later she came back with a pot of hot milk and a croissant. That made me happy again. I ate it all and got dressed. My parents had to help me put them on because I had some difficulty with my arm. The plaster was cast in a strange way; it was slightly curved around the wrist.
Later that morning, they let me go home. On the way home, we bought an arm sling in a chemist’s shop.
I rested at home for two weeks. During that time I had many visits. My brother used to bring home some schoolwork and homework to do. It kept me busy during the evenings, and it took me more time to do it because I had to use my left hand. One of my first pieces of work was a maths test!
The days I had the cast on made normal life difficult. I had two take showers with a plastic bag on my arm and trying not to wet it either. I also needed help to dress myself.
Around the eighteenth of May I went back to school. I still had the cast on. My friends and teachers were glad to see me again. The first days I struggled a little while writing with my left hand.
Two weeks later, they took my cast off. Just when they took my arm out of the cast, I saw how thin it was. They had to take away the staples they had put on. They bandaged it, because it looked rather horrible.
A few days passed and my arm was getting better, so they took the bandage off. Now, I could really see how long the cut was. I realised it wasn’t only one cut, but four. The biggest one ran down diagonally from my wrist to my elbow. Beside that one I had another, but that was quite smaller. Then I had two other small ones; one near my elbow and the other on the side of my arm, nearly touching my little finger.
In school I showed my friends and they were amazed. The teachers were amazed too, especially the science one.
The doctors had told us I had to go to the hospital everyday for an hour to do rehabilitation. This was a very strange place, full of old people and adults. When I got in I had to lie down on a bed and a nurse would put a kind of wet sponge that gave me electric impulses. This was to stimulate my nerve. Then I went into a room which looked more like a fitness centre than anything else. There were weights, bicycles and other complex machines. I usually sat down with a nurse and did exercises with my fingers. I had to press stress balls and press tweezers open. This was a nightmare for me because my fingers were weak and still didn’t feel much. I sometimes also had to use weights, and rode on the bicycle until my mother came to pick me up. All this helped my sensibility to improve. And I really did notice the change, for when I finished the month of rehabilitation I had nearly recuperated all the sensibility in my fingers.
In school I was already able to write with my right hand again. Everything was back to normal again.