Free Narrative Essays: Growing Up With Hemophilia

“Mitchell! It’s time!” my mom shouted from down the stairs. Nearly in tears at this point, I slowly walked down the stairs, stalling time with every step I took. Dreading this walk toward the kitchen table, I absolutely would rather be anywhere in the world than sitting at the kitchen table doing this. I took my time pulling the chair out and taking a seat. The pad was already on the table along with all of the necessary equipment. I tried telling my mom I didn’t need this, but the pain in my leg knew that was a lie. I knew that in only a few minutes all of this worry would be behind me, but the sight of the syringe and tourniquet were making me sick to my stomach. All of my focus was on the needle as it rested in my mother’s hand.
Growing up with Hemophilia has provided me with a different childhood than most children. Hemophilia is a rare hereditary bleeding disorder in which blood cannot clot due to a deficiency in factor VIII in the body. Hemophilia patients don't

necessarily bleed more than the normal person; they just bleed for a longer period of time. Although when an injury occurs, this factor (medicine) has to be infused through a vein in the arm or hand, to allow the blood to clot normally.
When I was a 7-year-old kid, I was kicked in the shin during one of my soccer games. My shin was throbbing immensely, but I continued to play until the end of the game. After the game, I pulled down my sock to observe what looked like a golf ball under my skin. When my mom saw my shin, her first response was, "I’m giving you a shot as soon as we are home." I would always try to ease my way out of it by saying "I'll just ice it and it'll be fine" even though I truly knew a shot was the only effective way to treat my injury. The minute we arrived home, my mom would find all of the necessary medical equipment and set it on the kitchen table. She would mix the factor, fill the syringe, and have all the medical supplies sterilized. By the time I sat down in the chair next to her, all of the work was already done except the actual shot itself. My mom would search for an accessible vein and do as the doctor taught her - to stick the needle in as if she is "landing an airplane". This was the same procedure we used for all of my injuries up until my high school years.
Now, as a senior in high school, I have a completely different approach to how I take care of my hemophilia.

Being on the varsity soccer team, I acquire bumps and bruises on my legs just about every game. At the end of the game, I am the one that approaches my mom and says, "I’m giving myself a shot when I get home." I now gather all of the equipment on the kitchen table and stick the needle into my arm as if I'm "landing an airplane." I occasionally give myself preventative shots before games so I can have the factor in me when I am hit or kicked on the field. Of course, my attitude toward receiving the shots didn’t just change in a day. I slowly helped my mom more by participating in each step until I finally started doing the whole procedure myself. As I leave for college, I won't have my mom available to help me with my factor shots. I have transitioned from my mom insisting that I have these necessary shots, to knowing when my body needs factor to address my hemophilia needs on my

own.