Grandma kept cleaning up after me and moving me from the couch to the bed and back. They called an ambulance.

“We need to take her to the hospital,” said my favorite doctor from the kids’ clinic. She was very kind and sweet, and I loved it when she came. They started packing me up for the hospital.

Mom came with me—I don’t remember where she came from, but suddenly we were both in the ER. They ran some tests, did an ultrasound, and decided to keep me in an isolation room for a few days because they didn’t know what was wrong with me.

They brought me to the room at night—it was dark and cold. Other kids were already asleep. I really wanted to drink something, and I just lay there thinking about the lemonades I had during New Year’s—not long ago. All I could think about was how thirsty I was, but they wouldn’t let me eat or drink anything. Mom left. Our time together was short. The next time she came was about a month later.

Finally, morning came. I’d been waiting for it—I thought they’d finally give me something to drink. Nope. They brought some smelly, warm jelly-like drink. It was disgusting. The hope that I’d ever get to drink anything faded almost completely.
But then my great-grandma showed up—and I was so happy. First, she brought real food—not the gross stuff from the hospital. Second, she brought water that tasted almost exactly like Sprite, though really it was just water with lemon and sugar. I was happy.

Grandma came every day. I became friends with a girl who was also staying in that same isolation room—she was waiting for a diagnosis too. We played, chatted, I sat on her bed, and for the first time, I felt like I had a friend.

There was also a boy in the room with us, from an orphanage. He was about our age—eight or nine. He said the orphanage sucked, but this place was even worse. I didn’t really like that.

Then he said he was going to marry my new friend, but if she didn’t say yes, he’d run away—because this was his only chance not to go back to the orphanage. We laughed, but one day he actually got dressed, opened the window, jumped out (we were on the first floor), and never came back. I still wonder what happened to him.

A few days later, they gave me a diagnosis—suspected appendicitis. They decided not to operate yet, just watch me. But they did move me and my new friend into a regular room—now we were full-on patients.

We got beds next to each other. The room had eight kids total. We started getting to know each other—some of them had been there for over a month, and I realized I’d probably be here for a while too. I needed to socialize.

All the kids in the room were friends with this older girl Irina—I don’t remember how, but I became part of that group too. She was fourteen. Already grown-up, really pretty, wore a bra, and had a music player! All the girls kept hugging her and walking around holding her hand—I wanted that too. I still remember how nice it felt to walk around holding her hand. So yeah, I quickly forgot my friend from the isolation room and joined the stronger crew—the one with the older girl in the bra and with the player.

Irina also told us she had already had sex, and she really liked it. I didn’t really understand what she meant, but it sounded like she had definitely kissed someone—and that was cool. You could lie in her hospital bed, cuddle, talk, listen to music.
We all adored her. I adored her.

No one ever visited Ira. But to be fair, no one really visited any of us. Grandma started showing up less, and Mom came maybe once or twice. I waited for her, but at some point I stopped. I had my own life here—we walked into other rooms, met new girls, and I started forgetting what it felt like to live at home.

And then one day this new girl showed up and wrecked our peaceful world with a terrifying story. She said that in some other hospital, she saw a girl eat a piece of chocolate, choke, and die.

It could’ve just been another hospital myth. But it got to me. No, it freaked me the fuck out. From that moment, I just stopped eating. For a few days, I didn’t eat at all—not that the hospital food made me hungry anyway. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t go without food completely, so I started chewing it so thoroughly it basically turned to mush or liquid in my mouth. At some point, I only used my front teeth to chew—it helped me control what was going down my throat. I needed to be sure nothing could kill me. Sometimes the food turned into such a gross paste that I couldn’t even swallow it, and I’d go spit it out—quietly, in the toilet, the sink, a napkin—wherever.

This lasted for almost six years.

The adults did notice that I chewed my food way too long. A few times, they even caught me spitting it out. But no one raised an alarm, even though I was living with constant fear. I really didn’t want to die, so I had to control everything that went into my mouth.

Eventually, other fears took over and this one faded a bit—I started eating like a normal person. But even now, there are certain foods that can trigger a panic attack, so I avoid them. Like, I almost never eat tomato skins—they’re too tough and might stick near my throat, which feels dangerous. Fish roe—tiny ones like masago or tobiko? Almost never. Gummy candy? Only with a lot of caution. Any fish that might have bones? Nope. Tangerines—I’ll only eat the pulp, never the membrane, because it’s too tough and hard to chew, and I don’t want to swallow it whole.

Even now, I still chew my food pretty thoroughly. But I guess that’s healthy, so it’s whatever.
So yeah, that hospital stay left me with an anxiety-based eating disorder. But let’s go back to the room.

We all got along pretty well. No one fought, no one bullied anyone. Sometimes interesting stuff happened—like one day they brought in a girl on a rolling bed, supposedly after a suicide attempt. She was older—sixteen, she said. We never learned her actual diagnosis, but just in case, we kept our distance. She just lay there staring at the ceiling, and then they took her somewhere. We never found out where. She didn’t come back.

Kids came and went, and we welcomed the new ones into our group. Everything was going fine. I really thought this would just go on like that forever—I didn’t want to go home at all. Of course, we all exchanged phone numbers, stayed in touch after discharge, but we never saw each other again.

The worst part of being in the hospital was the procedures. Blood tests, ultrasounds... but the scariest thing was the endoscopy. We all knew it was coming, we just didn’t know when. You lived on edge—they could tell you any moment, “tomorrow’s your turn.” And yes, eventually, it was my turn too.

Early in the morning, a nurse came and took me to another wing. Other kids had told me what it was like, and I was more and more scared with every step. First they did an ultrasound. That was fine. Kinda nice, even.

Then they sat me down in front of a room with big letters on the door: ENDOSCOPY. It was awful. I thought about running—but where? I just sat there and waited.
I don’t really remember how I got inside. I remember the room—a small space with a bed in the middle and a big machine next to it. There were two people inside: the nurse and the doctor.

They laid me down, and without much warning the nurse leaned over me, holding me down so I wouldn’t move. They shoved a bite block in my mouth—apparently so I wouldn’t bite the cord. Guess someone did that before. The doctor and nurse were chatting, not paying any attention to me. Then suddenly, the cable with the light at the end was in my mouth—and in my throat. I remember exactly how it felt going down. It’s unnatural. That should not happen to a person. Especially not when you’re eight.

They kept chatting the whole time. I just lay there, trying to survive. It felt like it took forever. Then they pulled the thing out, and that was it. They brought me back to the room like nothing happened.

Years later, as an adult, I tried to do the procedure again—by then my anxiety had turned into full-blown hypochondria. I thought something was wrong with my stomach. I also had insurance, so I figured I’d get a gastroscopy along with all the other tests.

I talked to this nice, attentive young doctor, lay down on the table, and the moment the cable was in my mouth and got close to my throat—I pulled it right out. The nurse gasped and started scolding me, saying you absolutely can’t do that. The doctor said the problem was in my head, and that people with panic attacks should do this kind of thing under sedation. My stomach stopped hurting right away.

After that, they discharged me pretty quickly. The diagnosis stayed the same—“suspected appendicitis.” They said they wouldn’t remove it yet, but that it would probably flare up again when I was older. And it did. When I was 27, I had my appendix removed. I thought it was just another episode of hypochondria—that’s the dangerous part. But it turned out to be early-stage peritonitis.

That was the second time in my life I ended up in a hospital. And it was nothing like the first. No older-girl friends—unless you count the ones over seventy. It was kind of boring. But I had a iPad and the internet, and that was enough.

In three weeks, Mom came once.