It was the last class of the day, Algebra One. My hands rapidly copied notes from the smart board. The words on my paper became unclear and smeared as my fingers had become numb. Fear surged through me as I looked at my dead, cold, pale hands. I quickly raised my hand, to get my teacher, Mr. Evasic's, attention. He looked away with disgust on his face. My heart raced as the thought of cancer or something worse flowed through my head.
"Mr. Evasic, my hands are blue!" I nearly shouted. He ignored me, not amused. I choked back tears. My classmates looked at me with concern.
"Hey, um, Mr. Evasic, she's not lying. Her hands are literally blue!" my friend Grejsi said besides me. Fear crossed her face once she had caught eye of my distress. I panicked and rushed out of the classroom. The faint light of the Stevenson Middle School hallway lights flickered. My legs couldn't carry me to the office fast enough. The door swished open with a burst of cold, crisp air. Tears ran down my face and I wiped the sour water off my cheeks before the administrator could see. I phoned my mom, she dropped everything she had been doing and came to pick me up. When she came, the two of us piled into the car and I laid against the window. We shared small talk of concern until we reached the Mott's Children's Hospital.
The dank, unwelcoming waiting room was filled with ill patients waiting to meet with their doctor. I chose a seat next to an old woman wearing a face mask. I smiled at her, but she turned away. She doesn't want to talk to freaks, I thought. I couldn't help but believe I was an outcast: a rejection of my own body. My mom then sat beside me, breaking me away from my deceptive thoughts.
"The doctor is going to take a while, sweetie. The front desk said they have an overload of patients tonight," my mom said with an uneasy smile. I nodded as I felt a sudden loss of words. "Oh and the receptionist said it was mandatory for you to wear this wrist band. It's so the doctor can scan the bar code and get all of your medical records," she gestured to my slender wrist and slipped the laminated white bracelet on.
"Great. Just what I wanted, another label," I mumbled only loud enough for me to hear. The waiting room was quiet other than the faint sound emanating from the t.v. and soft cries from new born babies. I focused my tired eyes on the t.v. screen as I slowly drifted away in a light sleep on the wooden chair.
The next thing I knew, I was awoken by my mom who nudged my shoulder and gently whispered my name. It was now 10:26 p.m. and the doctor was finally ready to see me. To my surprise, my hands were unchanged. Still a lifeless, cold, pale, numbness that I had experienced hours before. We followed behind the doctor who led me to a gurney in the middle of the hallway.
"Sorry for the inconvenience," the doctor apologized, he motioned his arm towards the gurney. "All of our rooms are currently full." My freak show was now on full display for the nurses and frantic relatives of the patients walking past. Each nurse couldn't help but look, curiosity and confusion filled their eyes. I should've been paid for this kind of show I had kept thinking. Before I got too lost in my thoughts again, Dr. Stan examined my hands and asked uniform questions like "When did you notice this?", "How long has this been going on?", and "Is there a family history of bad circulation?"
After I answered all of his personal questions, he left. I took the time that he was gone into consideration and decided to turn on my phone hoping to see messages from my friends. Of course there were none. Not long after the interrogation, Dr. Stan returned with four other student doctors. Each one greeted me with a smile and inspected my hands.
Each nurse had a look of frustration that made my doubt deepen. I felt like a guinea pig. I hated this. I wish I could go home and live without a problem again, like before. The nurses and Dr. Stan excused themselves to the computer across the hall. I caught a glimpse of what Dr. Stan was doing: he was Googling what was wrong with me. My heart sunk. It was unpleasant to know my own doctor didn't even know what was wrong with me. He was supposed to be the expert. But there I sat with the last hopes of each doctor to solve my blue hands. I twiddled my thumbs until Dr. Stan came back to the gurney.
He approached with a fake look of solicitude, and began with the famous line of apology, "I'm sorry Victoria, but it appears you have Raynaud's Syndrome." He patted my arm and gave me a sympathetic smile. Dr. Stan explained what it was and how to prevent the phenomenon. "I know you were probably expecting a great outcome, but I'm afraid there is no cure."
My body tensed up and I fought back the tears already forming in my eyes. Dr. Stan left after he handed mom a sliver of paper explaining more detail about my Raynaud's Syndrome. It was blatant that he had printed it off of Google. Another nurse wrapped my slender hands with a steaming blanket, and escorted my mother and I out of the hospital. My eyes still threatened tears as we shuffled into our red van. We settled into our seats and headed home. It wasn't until that moment that I realized I would have this for the rest of my life.
