Tubes in my arms, tube in my throat to help me breathe

Hurts to talk, hurts to move, hurts - just hurts

Kids all around in beds just like me

With tubes and beeps and machines and tents. It's scary.

I am three.

My ears hurt. My throat hurts. Again I can't breath.

Surgery.

I am five.

More surgery for me. Throat and ears. Have to go to another state this time

- my asthma is too fragile, the doctors say.

I am seven.

Bubbles in my chest. My neck hurts and I can't move my head.

Doctor says I coughed a hole in my lung. 

Nitrogen is leaking into me.

I am eleven.

My world has gone silent. Dad thinks I turned up the iPod too far.

This doctor says it's congestion. That doctor says total deafness.

New doc discovers the eardrum took a little trip. More surgery to bring it home.

Now I'm fifteen. 

Surgery. Hospitals. Doctors. 

My world is now a maze of linoleum and tile to which I've become accustomed. 

I'm 16 now, and the doctors have made a new discovery.

Polyps in my nose are mounting an anti-air campaign. 

Surgery to remove. More surgery. 

And more.

More.

17 has come. I am awaiting the next barrage of doctors, the next onslaught of tests.

Why are you still sick? They ask. 

As if I know.

As if I wouldn't turn all this off and be a normal person if I could.

If only.