Department of English

Spring 2007 High School Edition

Laughing Gas, Please

Lauren Woore
Creative Essay (11th-12th)
Second Place
Canyon View High School
Teacher: Susan Merrell

“Miss Woore, you’re going to have to get emergency surgery this very night. If we wait until tomorrow, you won’t be alive to see it,” solemnly stated Dr. Pearson.

My jaw dropped to the floor, or would have if the overgrown peninsula growing from my neck hadn’t prevented it. After recovering from Dr. Pearson’s soap opera conclusion, my originally simply day started to plunge like a bird shot from the sky, but try to imagine me, a ten-year-old girl, as the little bird being blasted away by a bullet complied of an unknown disease, never ending needles, the symptoms of starvation, cherry cotton candy laughing gas, a mysterious black hole, the liquidation of hospital food, and the savior of my stomach, four pork chops.

My end of days began on the lengthy trip home from my summer vacation in Great Falls, Montana. While lounging in the back seat of our jeep, which was determined to trundle back to Utah by nightfall, I happened to notice a small lump growing from the bottom of my neck. In the end, I mistook the minor swelling as nothing of importance. By the time we arrived to our house, the “minor swelling” had grown to the handsome size of a prize-winning Florida orange. This sudden growth precipitated maniacal driving to the emergency section of the hospital, which prescribed a super pill that obviously cured all but me; I ended up reacquainting myself with the toilet, face to bowl. Since Plan A obviously never worked out, my father introduced me to Plan B: Dr. Pearson, the six-foot-three walking miracle who specialized in ears, nose, and throat. Unlike the hospital, Dr. Pearson actually found information about the blazing hot bubble attached to my neck; he found that this particular disease, which did not have an origin, was a very rare case found in old people with rotting teeth, and not a little girl with a squeaky-clean dental record. That was when Dr. Pearson transformed into three sisters eagerly holding out my string of life, taut and ready to be snipped in half. It was off to the emergency section of the hospital. Again.

My following adventure in the hospital ward consisted of a hailstorm of shots, and I daresay that the nurse poking me with the needle was starting to look and feel like an angry hornet. I was rushed to my deluxe suite to be fitted in an exquisite robe made of paper that stood open in the back. By the time my lifesaving operation was within the hour, I was afraid that if I happened to look in the mirror the thing staring back would be covered in hair and calling herself “UGG;” I realized that my cave woman instincts were taking over: I hungry, I want meat. Very Neanderthal, yes, but my deduction is that one suffering from starvation syndrome would be cured by meat, which I was strictly deprived of while in the hospital. As I salivated to pork chops dancing temptingly around my head, the doctor brought me back with the question of which I would rather have: a painful, God-fearing shot to knock me out or very pricey, enjoyable laughing gas? I, of course, chose the laughing gas.

As I was wheeled away from my haggard-looking family, I entered an oh-so-white room filled with oh-so-camouflaged doctors in snow white robes carrying tools that were so not grey. The doctors, including Dr. Pearson, placed me on a wonderfully heated bed, revved up a wheeled-in stereo system softly reciting Britney Spears “Lucky,” pulled back their wands and began to work their magic.

“First you are going to smell cherries,” Dr. Pearson informed me. I smelled cherries.

“Now you should smell cotton candy,” Dr. Pearson once again reported. I smelled cotton candy, which reminded me of a carnival filled with clowns, fancy outfits, death defying rides, and the popping of large balloons with needle-like darts.

“Look, she’s laughing, she’s laughing,” the doctors quietly mused to each other. I was giggling. I was laughing. I blacked out.

When I awoke, whenever that was, I discovered that a quarter-sized hole replaced my once large lump; the hole reminded me of a black hole in space because there was great mystery in what lie behind it. I later found out that gauze had been stuffed into the dark abyss, and I knew this because I saw, or rather, felt it when Dr. Pearson came to rip the twelve-inch strip of dressing out of my neck. Wow, if rated on a one-to-ten scale of “wow” and how they are vocalized and expressed with facial expressions, did that hurt. I was hoping that food would provide some sustenance against the searing pain, so I requested and the nurse presented me with a steaming, tummy filling place of . . . liquids. To describe the disaster in my mouth would be like Hiroshima; my tongue literally melted away. I forced myself to courteously relinquish the “delicious meal” to my nurse. To my relief, my hours at the hospital were over. I wheel-chaired myself out of that place like a bat out of hell, and I flew straight to the four reserved pork chops waiting patiently in the fridge. Lauren Woore, the living, breathing human with an abyss-like hole skewered into the bottom of her neck, was back.

When I look back to those few hectic days of my childhood, I now understand that I was in a lot of trouble; I was going to die, just like trees in the middle of a construction site, animals caught in the hypnotizing gave of headlights, men, women, and children in war, and patients right down the hall from me. My family was worried to tears about my operation and they were stressing over the expenses, because I was lost on the path of fun. If a serious ailment decided to repeat history with me, I know I would be so afraid and so very aware this time. When I looked close enough, I realized that I uncovered some fine print stamped onto this fraying memory of mine that read, “The difficult years end up being the greatest years of your whole entire life. . . if you survive them.”