Medical Emergency NarrativeIt was the 4th of April, 2016 in sunny California. I was on a short trip with my parents, when I first started experiencing the horridness of my first medical emergency. Throwing up like a sink spewing gunk, I was so incredibly dizzy that I felt like I was on the spinning teacup ride at Disneyland. Everything around me was turning and flying past me while I gagged and gasped for air. The look on my mother’s face was almost worse than the symptoms I was experiencing. She looked like she had witnessed a murder, and was constantly trying to mask it with a calm loving face.”I’m fine mama,” I mumbled reassuringly. I thought I had for sure gotten some sort of stomach flu, and that everything was going to be fine The next thing I knew, I was being hauled off in a taxi to go to the emergency room at the Children’s Hospital in LA. At the hospital, I was immediately put into a little blue room, onto a bed, and showered with blankets. My nurse turned on the TV for me to watch while my parents discussed the symptoms I had been experiencing to the doctor outside. The doctor then came in with a solemn expression on her face.”We’re going to need you to be imaged by something called an MRI,” she said with a smile. “It’s nothing to worry about, the worst it does is make weird sounds,” she added to comfort me.”Okay,” I mumbled, not quite convinced that it wasn’t going to be scary.I was wheeled into another room where I had an IV needle put in, which to me looked as thick as a tree branch and felt as piercing as the shriek of a baby. The room was big, very eerily dimmed, and had white walls. It had a giant, terrifying looking machine in the middle, which I immediately knew was the MRI machine. A man, who was dressed in white, guided me into it. The doctor was right. The MRI machine truly did make weird and scary sounds, and with each of its barks and bellows, the pace of my heart quickened. After about an hour or so, it was done taking pictures of me with its fictional camera, and I was wheeled back into my little blue room. I laid there staring at the TV, waiting for the fateful results, hoping for good. Two hours later, my parents were taken outside, and the nurse sat next to me talking about the TV show I wasn’t really watching, as if she wanted to give me one last fun conversation to have before things went grim. Anxiously looking at the door, I waited for my parents to come in and tell me that the results were fine, and that I just had a bad case of the flu. But, my hopes were crushed after they came in fifteen minutes later looking like they had just wiped their tears. The doctor came in behind them. “Okay Haya,” she stated nice and clear, “it looks like you are going to need surgery to remove a tumor on your brain -which had been the source of your vomiting and headaches…”She may have said something else, but I had blacked out all sounds from my head, thinking. A tumor?… On my brain?… Do I have… Cancer? I did not manage to ask my question that day, but I knew for a fact, that the answer was yes. The bed I was on looked more white and colorless than ever. I looked to my right, and noticed a peculiar tree outside my window. It had no leaves, except for a tiny bright green one, sitting at the edge of one of its branches and staring at me. I first thought it was a symbol of sickness and decay, but looking back, I realize it was a symbol of life and hope.Having slipped away under anesthesia, I went through a seven-hour-long surgery. Only consciously waking up after two weeks, the only thing I remembered was that I opened my eyes and tried to get up, but couldn’t. It felt like I was a fish frozen alive in ice, trying to get out. Running my fingers through my hair, I noticed a slick tube attached to the dry and grainy scalp of my head. That tube was a shunt, which cycled my brain fluid, as my body couldn’t do so itself at the time. Feeling a new type of pain that I never felt before, I tried hard to be hopeful. A doctor, who was apparently one of the surgeons who had performed on me, walked into my hospital room. “The surgery was,” he announced with an unusual tone in his voice, which made me more nervous than ever, “was a complete success!”I did not manage to say anything, but I was filled with a sensation of both hope and happiness, trying to giggle as I looked at my parents, who were doing the same. Hope got me through my troubles. And like the little leaf on the old tree I’d seen before, it was growing. The tumor was gone, and my troubles were at an end.