As I wake from a deep, fulfilling sleep, I attempt to slide out of bed. I realize that I ache all over. I can barely stand on my own two feet, barely able to put my clothes on it hurts so bad. Stumbling down the stairs, I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t a soreness or achiness from lifting weights or from an exhausting day at school. I knew right away that something was terribly wrong with my body when my mom asked me “Why are you walking so funny?” I mentioned to her about the explosion of pain in my hands and knees. I would later realize that pain, like someone had blown my joints to bits with an air compressor, and the consequences of it, would haunt me for the next three years, and possibly forever.

For months, not knowing what was terribly wrong with by limbs, I would watch through the front porch window as my friends ran after each other, played games of pickup basketball, and rode their bikes to the local ice cream store. Laying there in pain in my hands, knees, elbows, and even my feet, but most of all, mentally. I would question my purpose and why something so debilitating would happen to me. I never thought that something to this level would ever happen to me, and I ultimately took that for granted.

As we pull into the P4 parking structure for my first appointment, I gaze out the window at the towering children’s hospital. Driving down through the dark lanes of the parking garage I wonder to myself, “Why has this terrible thing happened to me, of all people? Was I destined to be here on this early morning? Or had I just stumbled upon it?” We park and I painfully slide out of the car. It seems like it takes me centuries just to walk a hundred yards or so to the entrance of the hospital. My dad helps me stumble towards the doors, while my mom considers getting a wheelchair for me, but I cannot give up that easily. I can’t just be guided along through this struggle. I have to do it on my own. Worn down from the short, but also long walk, we enter through the automatic doors and get our guest stickers from the greeter. We walk to the elevators and I can feel the eyes gazing upon me, almost staring into my soul. They wonder why I am walking like a mummy for the first time in a thousand years. Trying not to pay attention to the painful glares, I finally make it to the elevators. My mom pushes the button with the number “8” on it, and we slowly are lifted to our destination. I stare infinitely through the metal doors; trapping us from the outside of the elevator. As the doors open, I stare out the windows of the eighth floor, almost seeing all of bustling Ann Arbor. My parents talk to the secretary and fill out paperwork, but I can’t stop looking out the windows, watching cars scurry to their destinations, people strolling on the sidewalks, and birds flying around in the blue sky.

The waiting room is enormous, yet empty. The room appears to go on in all directions. Chairs are organized in “U’s” and coffee tables organized in the corners. We wait for an eternity it seems like. I start thinking again, “Why am I here? Do I have this disease that I have never heard of before? What is the doctor going to be like?” Right then, a nurse opens the door and reads “Kyle.”

We are guided down the hall to an empty room with the door wide open. We enter into the small, bright room and take our seats. As we’re waiting for the doctor to come in, my dad and mom talk to me about random, unrelated topics. I study the cramped, illuminated room with a sink to wash hands, a desktop for the doctor and nurses, and the examination table with the white translucent paper covering it. We hear a knock and he walks in. A tall, formal, and young guy that has on a tie, black dress pants, and white dress shirt. Although I am unable to give a firm handshake, he shakes my hand and introduces himself as Dr. F. He’s wearing those type of glasses that just makes him appear as if he’s genius; who has his hair combed over. He asks my family and I in-depth questions trying to get a step on what could possibly be wrong with my crippled body. He finishes up with the questions and moves on towards the examination of my joints. He thoroughly bends, squeezes, and feels my joints in my hands and knees. He pays attention to every minute detail that no one would ever pay attention to. It seems like the exam takes forever from the shooting pain I get every time he moves my arms or legs. But once the exam is over, he sighs the bad news, “Your son has Polyarticular Rheumatoid JIA.”