Weekly Confessional: A Preview of Memories

I meant to post this on Sunday, to keep up with my Sunday Confessional theme. Alas, between work and preparations for my trip to the east coast, this post did not make it up in time. I'll try to get to confession this Sunday, though!

I was hoping to announce this post a great deal earlier than this, but that is not how life decided to play out. After a stint in New York City, I will be visiting Pennsylvania, and between gorging on Elio's toaster pizza and taking in all of the art I was too bratty to appreciate as a child, after nineteen years of being away from the city, I am revisiting the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. This isn't just going to be a whichever day I decide to walk in, followed by lunch at the local cafe, no no. I have a scheduled visit which includes a walkthrough of the fifth floor west wing, my wing. This is the wing where I spent more nights that I'd like to count; a good portion of my years in Pennsylvania. Five years may not seem like a lot of time in the grand scheme of a human lifespan, but these particular five years of my life were easily the most significant as they shaped me, giving me two open heart surgeries, a best friend, my first ambulance ride, influential teachers I will cherish and strive to impress so long as I live, an animal companion whose life meant more to me than many of the humans that have crossed my path, a cardiologist I admired and would hold all others up to in terms of quality and temperament, and a profound loathing of cold climates. I find it appropriate that this adventure be held in my thirtieth year and had hoped for a number of years this would come to fruition. It gives me all sorts of warm and fuzzy feelings when goals are realized.

I didn't walk away from Philadelphia with many unresolved issues of the psychological or emotional variety; I am a fairly upbeat, confident person when I look back at that time. This is largely in part due to the staff and very nature of CHOP doing all they could to make the lives of their young wards easier, brighter and as cheerful as humanly possible. While sterile white is a common motif among my hospital-related memories, so is the color yellow - bright and welcoming, yellow was the main accent color along with rainbow plaid curtains to draw around my bed when the need for privacy took me. 

"Get to the playroom."

"Get to the playroom."

This was my only mantra whenever I was ensconced to CHOP; a virtual wonderland of video games, board games, books, videos, puzzles, toys and other instruments of happiness to assist the morale and hurry along the recovery process. My favorite was the free-standing Ms. Pac-Man game that had no need of quarters, just patience and will.

This was the room to meet and befriend the ever rotating faces, names and stories that came through fifth floor west wing. Though I do not recall all of their names, I am proud to say I remember a handful of the girls and boys whom I either shared quarters and happy memories with: Raven, Lauren, Jeremy, Nathan, baby Alice, baby Jordan. Raven and Lauren would be about my age now; Raven with her many asymmetrical braids of all shapes and sizes, much gusto in her personality; Lauren with her long, fine brown hair and blue eyes. Jeremy was older than I, almost banished to the adult ward but still able to catch a few years in the children's side. He would be close to forty now, with quiet mannerism, long hair and a love for his acoustic guitar. Nathan was around my age as well, dirty blond or light brown hair. 

It is Baby Alice, though, whose wide, blue eyes sought me out as a source for comfort and familiarity amongst the confusion of her just-begun life. I don't recall how old she was exactly, my mother says between one and two. Her own family was rarely present, as I believe they lived out of state with both parents in the work force. If my mom pulled the curtain that separated our beds to a close Alice would scream and cry until it was pulled back and she could see me. I would feed her ice chips and read her stories by the hour. Reaching through the cold metal bars of her crib I would hold her little hand, still chubby with that layer of new baby pudge, and talk to her in tones that suggested a higher knowledge than my seven years possessed. 

Baby Jordan was around two when we met; a plastic tube from his nose led to a Crayola dark green oxygen tank that shadowed him like a faithful service animal. Already handsome with thick, dark curly hair and dimples despite his thinning frame, he was desperate to be on the go, toddling about the playroom with a fierce determination and joy no illness could snatch from him. HIs father, his poor father, exhausted and overwhelmed, let me, a nine year old, watch over his son as he escaped to the downstairs cafeteria for a much needed cup of generic coffee. Exhilarated with my new found responsibility, I took my duties of Jordan-sitting with an ardent earnestness that would follow me into my career as a child care provider. Hovering behind him like a farmer's daughter with a flock of chicks, I herded him around the playroom where ever his heart desired to venture.

Suddenly seized with the memory of one of my earliest babysitting gigs when I was fourteen, I made what I thought was a rhetorical inquiry to baby Jordan's fate. My mom's face had the answer. She had kept the secret of Jordan's death for five years. Enraged, I demanded to know whose death she had also kept but she couldn't recall who lived and who died. She had a system; whenever I was admitted to the hospital and boisterously inquired after one of my little friends, the nurse would silently shake her head at my mother, too subtle a gesture for the self-absorbed child mind to heed. Mom would then politely suggest that such-and-such friend was probably home, or at school. Not precisely a bastion for recollection, my mother had forgotten the rest of them. Jordan's case was different for her; she remembered the haunted appearance of his father…how completely ignorant he and his wife were to this club which they did not ask to be signed up for, only to find themselves in another club with the worst membership fee possible.

My first bout of survivor's guilt happened the night I discovered Jordan's death. The conclusion was swift and simple: I must live and remember as much as I can, whomever I can. I will live and I will carve my own definition of happiness into the universe, not to be deterred by finger-wagging eejits who would tell me I am an unformed person for not completing the required checklist of adulthood success; for not coloring within the lines, as it were. 

Though I would be over the moon should I be able to hunt down those I do remember, I know federal HIPPA laws prohibit medical officials from divulging any sensitive material and therefore I do not have my hopes set high. However, I do not expect this to be a sad visit. Contrariwise,this will be a harmonious reminder of all the miracles both science and the human heart can design when they are one. It will be nostalgic and sentimental, as I am both nostalgic and sentimental, and I will be sure to take notes on my observations and feelings. 

It is apropos that the woman I am staying with during my time in Philadelphia is not only a fellow adult with a congenital heart defect but a former patient of CHOP. Indeed, we were frequently in and out of the same ward when were both young, and odds are favorable that we once shared a hospital room. Irony. She is an abundant mistress.

For now I wait on the proverbial edge of my seat, eager to experience the thoughts, memories and emotions I undoubtedly will as I revisit the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. Will I unearth catharsis? Self-inflicted wounds of yore? Ennui? As the immortal Chuck Barry once said: you never can tell.

The Ghost of Douchebags Past

Ok, I have to share something that happened at the ACHA conference last month. I enlisted my mom to come to the conference on Friday and Saturday and hit up the panels I couldn't make because I was either
(a) in another panel at the same time
(b) napping by the pool

So, on Friday we're texting back and forth as hop between our respective panels.

I text: "Where are you now?"

She texts: "I ran into your old doctor."

I text: "Dr. UCLA?"

She says: "No. From Loma Linda."

Now, I get excited because I'm thinking OMG! It's Dr. Sehra! He left the clinic to pursue research at the same time I left LL to go to UCLA. We really loved one another and got along swimmingly. He was the first cardiologist I felt safe with since I parted ways with Dr. Muhammad Saleem from Childrens Hospital of Philadelphia a decade or slightly less earlier. It had kind of been a shit storm until him, and since we lost touch I got excited thinking he might be at the conference.

So I text, "DR. SEHRA? <3 <3 <3"

She quickly responds, "No."


OK, well, I had Dr. L-, a pediatrics cardiologist. She was pretty cool, no real complaints.


"Dr. L-?"


"No. The one from San Diego."


Now, she is aggravating me because Dr. Sehra DID move to San Diego to conduct his research. Just as I am about to angrily text back, she beats me to it with a follow-up text.


"Dr. Hairybutt*"


* = Dr. Hairybutt is not his real name, obviously, but since I am about to seriously lay out the smackdown I decided it would be best to cover up his identity.


Dr. Hairybutt.

WE MEET AGAIN!

I'm fucking floored. How could this asshole still be in practice? So, Dr. H is an arrhythmia specialist (allegedly) and twice a year I had to deal with his condescending dumb ass when I was forced to go to Loma Linda by my insurance. He is a cocky know-it-all who thought he could "rap" with me because he was the father of teenagers and since I was a teenager at the time, OF COURSE I would just, like, totally relate to him, right? Right?

Fuck no.

He was patronizing, chauvinistic, arrogant and worst of all - he did not listen to his patient, me.


I was having on and off again arrhythmia issues and my mom, observant as ever, was the first one to notice that they coincided with my cycle. She told this to Dr. Hairybutt and he totally blew her off. So when it came time for my annual Holter monitor, my mom made sure to schedule it around my cycle and lo and behold - they finally caught my arrhythmia and found a pattern. I think this incident alone earned Dr. Hairybutt a slap from my mom, but wait - there's more.


During my unstable periods of "random" arrhythmia and atrial fibrillation Dr. Hairybutt wanted me to try Procainamide to control them. Here's the thing: I used Procainamide once, when I was nine years old and my arrhythmia was out of control. You know what happened? I developed drug-induced lupus and childhood schizophrenia. It took years to undo the ravages that medicine left in its wake, only to be rivaled again just a couple years later by atenolol, which turned me into such a monster I was "excused" from school for a whole semester (another story for another time, though). Dr. Hairybutt KNEW this, he fucking knew my medical history and still insisted that I give procainamide a go.
I actually ran away from the exam room in frustration and tears, but I let that butthead talk me into it because of course he's a grown up with a degree who Knows Better. Right?
WRONG.

Within hours my body, wise as ever, reacted with a loud and gross, "OH HELL NO, NOT THIS SHIT AGAIN!" and I was vomiting for at least twenty-four hours. I missed even more school than I already had been, trying to recuperate and recover from the violent reaction my body had to trying to poison it again with procainamide.


Now, if that doesn't earn Dr. Hairybutt a swift kick to the nuts, I don't know what will. In lieu of a swift kick, though, I insisted he was to never sit in on my appointments and dole out his bullshit for the rest of my forced stay at Loma Linda, which I would endure until my 21st birthday. So for the next four-ish years we avoided him. Should our appointment coincide with his monthly venture to LL, we would walk past him like he was a specter haunting the halls of the hospital, on the lookout for another child to shake his chains at and shout a condescending, "BOO! Gimme a high-five! For shizzle!"

Cut-to the ACHA conference over a decade later, I kind of feared for my mom's safety...OK, that's a lie. I feared for her freedom of the next 10 to 20 years because Lord Only Knows what this woman will do if this man has cornered her and is talking in Short Sentences Using Small Words to her. Luckily, when I found her she explained that she did not exactly "run into" him but walked past him in the hall. He did not recognize her and she only had the chills of Douchebags Past giving her a vague inclination that she knew this dude. Then he wound up speaking at the panel she sat in on and it all came flooding back. She wisely decided to sit out of stabbing distance.

Infamy at 300 beats per minute

For a brief, yet poignant time in my childhood, I lived in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania – just 40 minutes west of Philadelphia, where I was a patient at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP). The five years I spent in this little town brought me the most profound experiences that would shape the adult I am today, from the two wonderful elementary teachers whom I still attempt to keep in contact, to the two life saving open heart surgeries (performed by Dr. Norwood himself, if you don’t mind a little horn tooting), to forming the two most meaningful relationships of my life; that of my cat, Mr. Destiny (hello, crazy cat lady here) and my best friend, KD.

Those five years saw me in and out of the hospital more times than all the rest of my years outside of the 19406 ZIP code put together. My heart “problem” (as we so lovingly referred to it) was well known throughout the town, especially those unfortunate individuals who happened to either work or attend or have some affiliation with the elementary schools I attended because I was at school just as much, if not more, as I was at home. My health reached new levels of high tension drama, one that could quite easily rival any prime time medical show (I’m looking at you, Dr. House!), and one instance my heart having a throw down with me garnered enough attention to send me in local King of Prussia infamy that still follows me today.

During the winter of early 1990, between my second and third open heart surgeries, I was enjoying a peaceful morning in my first grade class. My teacher, Ms. Twiss, chose myself and another little girl to take the slips of attendance and lunch orders up to the office and cafeteria, respectively. This little girl and I…did not get on well. She did not like the way I looked, and I did not like the way she displayed behavior common to a sociopath. We made the walk up to our respective destinations in silence, I to the office first while she went on to the cafeteria. As we were instructed to go together, I knew we would have to go back together as well. I waited in the main foyer for her return from the kitchen when BAM! Everything went black.

The next thing I knew I was lying on the overstuffed, split-pea green vinyl bed in the nurses office while phones were blaring, people were rushing in and out, talking in rapid, tense tones and panic rose in the air. The nurse, dear Mrs. Noll (whom I would later see in my adult life and thank profusely, though there are no words to express the gratitude I feel for this woman) told me to lie still, my parents were on their way.

I caught on that something was amiss, though I laughed it off and insisted I was fine, cradling my head in my arms Ferris Bueller style to emphasize my point. That is when I saw it – my thick, mint green and pale pink woolly sweater leaping in rapid palpitations from my chest, over and over and over, as if it had suddenly been given the Powder of Life. It was tachycardia – and after the initial shock wore off, embarrassment set in. WHY HERE AT SCHOOL? OMG!

My parents were soon by my side, paramedics on their way but caught in traffic. TRAFFIC? Traffic! What could they do; they were a good twenty minutes away and I needed to get to CHOP now. It was decided that the spacious field beyond the baseball diamond would be made use of by the hospital-issued helicopter and I would be air-vaced to the Childrens Hospital of Philadelphia. I believe my reaction was, and I may be paraphrasing, “Rad!”

Embarrassment was gone, and what I oft refer to as my patent False Bravado (a self-preservation tool) officially kicked in. I could hear the principal speaking with my classmates in the cafeteria; she had wisely decided to hold an impromptu assembly so as to keep little busybodys away from the windows as the medics strapped me in my own luxury seat and wheeled me to my first class position on the waiting helicopter. On our way out, I caught sight of local news vans and told the medics my left side was my best side. They laughed and secured me in my sweet new ride, my dad buckling up near me, ready to join in on the adventure.

When I eventually returned to school, my best friend proudly showed me the newspaper where my aerial had a write-up and told me I even had a spot on the local news. Dude, I was famous.
Fame is fickle, though, and not a year went by afterward nor in the years after I would move from Pennsylvania and return irregularly for visits that a person stopped me, mid-conversation and cried, “Oh my GAWD! You’re Rachael Faught? You’re the Little Girl with the Heart Problem? You’re the one that got picked up in a helicopter? I totally thought you were dead!”
Moved to Fresno…dead…you know…same difference?
(Just kidding…go Bulldogs!)

I’m never insulted, however, because I always take great comfort in the fact that upon realizing who I am, though perhaps we had very little interaction as children, these well-meaning individuals always seem extraordinarily relieved to discover I am alive and (relatively) well.
Twenty years later, their peace of mind at unburdening them with thoughts of a fallen peer still never fails to bring a smile to my face, and determination of survival to my spirit.

Bart No Like. Bad Medicine.

The latest Chronic Babe Blog Carnival Asks: Trick or Treat! Halloween is coming soon and we started thinking, wow, medicine is like Editrix Jenni's favorite holiday. Sometimes you get treats, and sometimes you get tricks. We'd love to hear about the ups and downs of your experience. Show us the highs and lows, and the surprises!





Currently I take 4 pills upon waking, 2 vitamins after I eat breakfast, iron at midday/afternoon, 5.5 pills at night followed by another iron pill. It may seem like a lot to swallow (ha ha - that's what she said) but some of those are doubles or a different dose of the same medication. In actuality, I only take 7 different kinds of medication. Five are related to my heart, one to my thyroid and the other none of your damn business. ;)

The only type of medication that has ever proven to be difficult are the medications I take to control my arrhythmia. I won't state which medications that I was taking because everyone's reaction to them is going to be unique and I do not want to scare anyone who may be taking either of these meds or know someone who is. It all has to do with my unique chemistry, not the pills alone. It's like being allergic to peanuts. Peanuts might be DEATH to one person but delicious toppings to an ice cream sundae for someone else.



Most of the pills I take (minus 4)



Bad Medicine: The First Encounter
When I was nine years old, I was put on a particular medication for my recently developed arrhythmia. Gradually, I developed myalgia, confusion, drug-induced lupus and nightmares. Oh, my ticker was doing the best it had ever done up to that point in my life - healthy, strong, responsive! - but I was in constant physical pain and having my first experience with extreme brain fog. The climax came when my mother found me going off to school well before it was time. I stepped outside, backpack on...walked down the path to the sidewalk. Turned towards the end of the street. Walked about two houses down. GOT LOST AND CONFUSED. Like a child walking through the woods. God, THE PANIC!
I forgot where I was going, why I was going there, what I was doing, how did I get there? It was just a jumble of foggy anxiety. Really, the fog in my brain was just so dense it was any wonder I was able to make it back to my house, knock on the door and tell my mom I didn't feel good. It took a little over a week in the hospital to ween me off and get everything under control.

Bad Medicine: Even Badder
Doctors went for another medication when I was in junior high. This time, everyone got a little smarter and removed me from school (removed/kicked out, it's all relative). Man, oh man...what a roller coaster of batshit crazy that was. I developed psychosis immediately. Paranoia, hallucinations, violent mood swings, seething anger, intense mania...oh, the mania! As ridiculous as it sounds, I almost miss the mania. Almost. I was extraordinarily productive during this time, creatively wise. I ate/slept/drank my writing, stayed up to all hours of the night just writing and writing and writing - all by hand. I had containers filled with complete novels (mostly dribble, but the rough drafts of future projects as well). I painted, sculpted, and drew. Despite this, there is no question now in my mind that I was insane.
Unfortunately, my mom couldn't figure out if my extreme behavior was due to me just being an angst-ridden teenager or if it was the meds. So I was like this for a number of months, constantly flying off the handle, smashing anything I could get my hands on in a temper tantrum that could rival any toddler. No fun.
Mom finally came to the conclusion that I wasn't right in the head and by the second half of my 8th grade year I was off the medication. The side-effects gradually tapered off, but as I was never given assistance for the repercussions of going through such an experience, it would not be until I reached adulthood that I realized half of what I experienced during my junior high years was more than likely the result of my medication.

I've never publicly written about this, though I did tell a select few about it a couple of years ago, when I was reflecting on it for the first time since reaching adulthood. It's been a little nerve-wrecking allowing everyone to know this information and get a glimpse of what once went through my brain. I feel that this blog carnival is the perfect opportunity to go public about my experience, even if people will take a step back from me. I have yet to bring myself to read the journals I kept during that time. I know they're filled with ramblings about people that never existed.







Luckily, this story has a hopeful ending. When I was sixteen years old it was decided I need to give another medication another go. I was understandably scared, but I also appreciated the fact that my new doctors were taking this seriously enough to quarantine me at the hospital and observe me for heinous side-effects. At the end of my sophomore year I went in the hospital for a week, armed with a care package from friends I'd met on the internet, filled with a wondrous new music that would stay with me forever. My body - and my brain - took to this medication beautifully and I have been on it ever since.

A treat indeed, given all of the tricks I had to go through to finally get to it!

NOTE: High five for everyone that recognized the Bart Simpson quote.

images one and three from We Heart It

A Cardiac Crisis and the Monster Mash

The latest prompt from Chronic Babe blog carnival asks: How do you handle a crisis? No matter how hard we try to take care of ourselves, there are times when things go horribly wrong, either with our health or some other personal issue. How do you prepare for such a turn of events? How do you cope in the middle of it all? And how do you recover?

Well, a crisis has to be handled on a situation by situation basis. There are two major crisis that come to mind in my life and I believe I already wrote on one, so I'll talk about the other, more recent crisis I had.

The worst situation, in my head, was to have a major episode of tachycardia around my friends. Though I am not embarrassed by my health and I am happy to talk about it anytime, I knew I would be just mortified if anything occurred while my friends were around. I think it was the idea of appearing weak and sick around my friends that scared me most. I like being the loud-mouthed funny one; not the sickly mousy girl.


So, back up to October of 2007. I decided to throw a Halloween party for my girlfriends. Not just a simple dinner and scary movies party, either. Oh, no. I went ALL out ~ glowsticks, homemade and store-bought decorations, a YouTube channel to loop videos of Halloween cartoons from our youth, a ShoutCAST radio station to play retro spooky tunes as we ate spaghetti topped with my signature homemade spaghetti sauce. I had a variety of movies on hand, ranging on the fright meter from so bad it's scary to mildly gross to downright nightmare-worthy. I even created a few spooktacular games including a horror movie version of WHO AM I? and a full fledged Halloween theme JEOPARDY! complete with final Jeopardy question and prizes.
It was a crowning achievement in my parties, and I was extra pleased that nearly all of my guests were able to come. As we are getting older, lives are changes, careers are blossoming and it's becoming more and more difficult to get together.

Earlier that day I felt a little palpitation at work. No worries; I popped my back-up pill and alerted my supervisor just in case it turned into something bigger. Fortunately, it didn't...while I was at work, anyway!

That evening, my party was in full spooky swing - we had played one game, watched the Garfield Halloween special and were sitting around the dining room table enjoy dinner with Halloween-y tunes in the background when all of a sudden--! WHAM! My heart takes off like a bat out of hell, going into full-blown tachycardia. Remaining calm and quiet about it, I do not let on what's going on. I drink copious amounts of water and take deep breaths, then slowly get up and take my evening pills. Nothing. My heart doesn't even slow down or pause.
I excused myself and go visit my mother in her room, collapsing on her bed and confessing what has been going on. I want to keep it a secret if I could, try and get my heart down on its own. My mom tries to listen and record it with her stethoscope but it was going too fast.

She goes to get another emergency pill I use for rapid heart rate - trying not to meet the eyes of my friends in case they ask where I wandered off to. She gives me the pill, but I am suddenly nauseous and...well, I get sick. Sicker than I've ever been. I have never, ever, once upchucked during a tachycardia episode. This does not bode well. It was time to call it quits, throw in my towel and get my ass to the ER.


My mom went out to my friends and told them - I was too embarrassed (not to mention sick) to do it myself. They were totally shocked, having no clue I what I was dealing with. They tried to clean up a little, just enough to make sure my kittens (only 6 months old at this time) wouldn't get into anything. I changed into my pajamas (the only way to be admitted to any hospital!) and took my electric razor and quickly buzzed off my arm hair.

PROTIP: If you're going to the hospital, shave your arms! You will thank me when the hospital tape doesn't hurt as much.

I tried to crack jokes for my friends, but they were clearly freaked. I was pale, sickly and probably a little blue around my eyes and lips. Perfect look for a Halloween party, but not under these circumstances!
I apologized profusely, lamenting about my ruined decorations, games, prizes, etc. but my friends were of course more concerned about me than getting to dessert and Jeopardy.

They gathered their things and left, and my mom and I left. In front of my friends, I remained collected, calm and even jokey. As soon as they were out of sight, though, and I was in the backseat of my mom's Toyota, I was crying, stressed and utterly freaked out.
This was one out of two situations where I honestly thought to myself, Oh my god, this it. This is freakin' it. It's all over, age 25. Well, at least I traveled...

So it's 40 minutes of these kind of thoughts that I am trying NOT to have. Now, you may be thinking OMG WHY WOULD YOU DRIVE SO FAR? Frankly, I don't trust my local hospitals, especially in an emergency. They're not specialty hospitals, they don't know how to handle me and they've already proven to be incompetent twice over by this point.

When my tachycardia first began, it would send me to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia ER at least once a month in a four year span. This night blew those episodes out of the water!
It was the actual act of being physically ill that made kept my internal panic button flashing, but I did my best to not think this was curtains for me. When I was finally at the ER and surrounded by doctors that I knew, however, I felt better and was able to calm down. I trust TEAM RACHAEL! and TR! affiliates like Dr. Catwoman with my life. These are the people I knew would save me and make it better. As much grief as I give them, it's moments like these that make them worth every single pill they prescribe, blood test they order and obnoxious stress test they administer.

How did that night end? Well, I'm here, aren't I? They knocked me out and decided to electrically cardiovert me (that's when they get out the paddles and yell, "CLEAR!" on TV) which shocked my heart back into submission. I woke up immediately afterward, feeling surprisingly rested (amazing what 100-400 watts of electricity can do for the body, huh?) and asked how long I'd been knocked out. 30 seconds!

Thank goodness, they found the source for my tachycardia: hypothyroid (crazy what that little sucker thyroid gland can control!) and while I've had a couple of arrhythmia issues here and there, I have, thankfully, not been to the UCLA emergency room since October of 2007.

So, long story short: How do I handle a crisis? Get my butt to TEAM RACHAEL!, stat!

My Security Bunny

It is fairly common for children to have a security blanket of sorts. Now, this doesn't need to be a literal blanket ala Linus, but can take on many forms such as a stuffed animal or other keepsake.
I started off with a blanket, but due to a Grandmother who thought "out of sight, out of mind" cold turkey was the best method to break a six year old out of a thumb sucker habit, I had to switch to stuffed animal. (Totally didn't work, Grandma. Old school child psychology FAIL!)

Specifically, my yellow Puffalump bunny who my mom officially dubbed Boo Boo.

Boo Boo with her hospital bracelet

I tried to give her a proper name for when the nurses and doctors asked, but Boo Boo always stuck.

This noble, stuffed bunny was dragged everywhere I went - sleepovers, doctor appointments and surgeries being her most needed moments of comfort. I never went a single night of my childhood without her either closely hugged to my chest or as a makeshift pillow under my head, her ears as a substitute for my long, lost blanket.

She was there with me during cold echocardiograms, annoying EKG's, painful IVs, obnoxious student doctor visits and those frightening moments between being wheeled away from my mother into the operating room and officially under the anesthesia.

When I woke up from every procedure and operation, Boo Boo was right there next to me. I wouldn't know until I was twenty-two that she was never kept in the OR with me (note to parents: Please don't tell your kids. It's easier to believe than it is to know).

Over the years she has needed a few surgeries herself - stitch-ups and patches, and years of love has given her a permanent cannot be washed worn look. Since my last major surgery in 2004, Boo Boo has enjoyed a peaceful retirement, sitting quietly on my pink bedside drawers next to where we sleep at night.

I put on a brave, loud and fairly obnoxious front as a child, but part of the ability to do so was having my bunny clutched tight next to me, providing comfort, love and security.

Did you have a security blanket or stuffed animal/doll as a child?