Like I said, my parents grew up when you didn’t go to the doctor. Anything wrong with you, but inexplicable, was chalked up as “growing pains.” It was like our family was growing up in the 1960s while the ‘90s were all around. My mom figured, what’s the point of waiting hours at the doctor… and back then it was a longer wait at the doctor’s office than at the ER…. and having to pay a big bill when you could just tough it out? Plus, Mom wouldn’t have to worry about the how the heck they’d find the money for medicine.
My mom used to be a nun, but she used to be an elementary school teacher, too. She gave that up to be a full-time mom. When she wasn’t a religion teacher, a Girl Scout leader or picking kids up from school, she was always home. Dad worked at a manufacturing company, and when I was old enough to understand that, he had already worked his way up from the counter where he copies keys to the credit department, and to human resources. Their roles were clear. He provided, Mom decided.
In 8th grade I remember having a sharp, stabbing pain in my ribcage. It hurt to breathe and I couldn’t lay flat. I slept in the living room recliner on a Sunday night. The next day I asked for a note to get me out of gym class. Keep in mind, I loved phys ed. My mom said no because I looked fine. I argued a little, but even that hurt, so I said to hell with it.
I told the phys ed teacher that my ribs were killing me. She was skeptical, so she pushed on my ribs. I started howling while tears, lots of tears, poured down my face.
“You have to go to the doctor,” she said with a furrowed brow. “I don’t think you’re faking this, Costello.”
That night I did some homework, and I slept in the recliner again because simply easing my back down into bed was more painful than anything I’d ever experienced.
The next morning I begged not to go to school. I couldn’t cry or scream because it hurt too much. Mom finally said, “Fine. Stay home. Let’s bring you to the hospital. Do you want me to call the ambulance?”
She left, took the other kids to school, and then came home. It was strange how none of the other kids stuck up for me. Bill, four years older than me, just walked away from the drama. Joe, two years older, watched it with his mouth open. Stephanie, two years younger, sort of hid with eyes wide open. Lizzie, seven years younger, was only about 7 years old, so she probably had no idea what was going on.
Mom grabbed me by the arm and told me to get in the car. She squealed out of the driveway, most likely thinking about how much money she was going to have to spend on this doctor’s visit. We waited an hour or so at Dr. Kiser’s office. I listened to my mom heavily sigh over and over and over. We finally saw the doctor. I was sobbing as he poked and prodded. They actually had x-ray machines in doctor’s offices back then. We got a chest x-ray and he returned soon and flipped on a light so we could all see the images as he held them up.
“See those crooked lines?” he said as he guided our eyes along them with the bottom of his pen. “Those are fractures. And there is a small break right here.” He turned to me and said, “So young lady, you fractured a few ribs and even broke one. What in heaven’s name have you been doing?” I had no idea.
I climbed trees, played street football and basketball, and wrestled with my siblings… it could have been anything.
“I’m such an awful mother,” my mom cried, as Dr. Kiser wrote out a prescription for steroids.
My mom grudgingly brought me to the doctor another time that year when I was exhausted and had headaches. My teacher actually called home to tell my mom he was worried about me.
Mom and I were back in the same doctor’s office. A nurse practitioner saw me this time and drew some blood. A few times in middle school and high school I had noticed blood in the toilet after having a bowel movement. Mom talked to a friend of hers who was a nurse for the city. They determined it was no big deal.
My blood tests I was anemic. It was serious. But I was told all I needed were iron supplements and lots of green, leafy vegetables. I took those supplements, I tried to eat broccoli. I was still exhausted. But I stopped complaining.
I was anemic all through high school. I had a physical before my junior year of high school so I could play varsity volleyball. The blood tests showed I was still anemic. The doctor said that meant I didn’t have enough iron in my blood. He said oxygen uses iron as a cab ride to get to the heart and all around the body. The lower the iron, the harder it was for oxygen to get to and from the heart.
It all made sense, except that my iron levels were most likely OK. I was losing blood when I went to the bathroom. It wasn’t the iron count that was low; it was the amount of blood that was low.
Let’s say there’s a half of pepperoni pizza on the table. The pizza is all of your blood. The pepperoni is the iron. So yes, you’d be right if you said half of the pepperoni was gone. But that’s because half the pizza’s gone. It wasn’t so obvious with a blood test.
So it wasn’t that I didn’t have enough iron… I was losing blood. And nobody knew.
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