Little Beads

This is a guest post by Beads of Courage member Mary Myers Huddleston, a 17-year-old in our Chronic Illness program.  She wrote about her recent hospitalization for a school assignment. 

The young man, clothed in blue scrubs with a surgical mask around his neck, sat on the edge of my bed.  Leaning over, he cupped his hands around my ear and whispered: “I know this is so hard, but you can’t give up; this is the time that you have to fight as hard as you can -- I believe in you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. My heart palpitating deep in the depths of my chest. I feel the cold sweat beading around my hairline and the tear rolling off my cheek.  My parents were out of town.

I just wanted my mom. 

Linda, a middle-aged nurse with short blond hair and thick, colorful clog shoes, knocks on my door: “Good to see you again. How are you feelin’, sweet pea?” she asked.  


With my eyes still closed, I raised my thumb from my tense fist to signal a thumbs down.  I almost always gesture a thumbs up -- that way I can save my thumbs down for when I absolutely need them. Today I needed to use one.  

Linda proceeds to the ER protocol. In my case, this consists of needle stabbing, machines restricting my movement, and oxygen being forced into my nose by a clear little tube wrapped around my face.

Why am I not better? Why can’t I be well? Why can’t my parents be here? There’s no use in fighting anymore.  

In the silence, the echo of a plastic container filled with the rattling of glass beads rang in my ear.  

My eyes jolted open. The muscles on my face lift into a smile, in spite of how I feel.  “Let's get stringing,” Linda said.

A pink, two black, and a yellow bead rested in her cupped hand. These were my Beads of Courage: a trophy that shows my bravery. Blacks are for pokes; I hate pokes, but because I get a bead, going to the hospital is a little easier. Courage comes in different shapes and sizes. In my case, it’s little colored beads.

I roll each bead between my fingers, as I guide each hole through the string.  For a moment, I forget where I am, why I am there, and that my mom isn’t.
  
Although my disease took from me, it gave me much more:  Now, I cherish every moment; life is too short to worry. Now, I am thankful and appreciate the little in life. Now, I believe in myself.

I have the courage to conquer the world.