When I was eight years old, I convinced myself that I was surely going to die. Here I was at the top of my bed, laying face down on my stomach, hoping that would cure the pains I was feeling. Throughout the evening, I had come down with a cold and ended up puking my brains out relentlessly to the point where even a shot of Pepto Bismol would not help. A sharp pain suprised my insides, and the right side of my body felt like it had been shot. Luckily, I was not wounded by any gunshot, but hurt from appendicitis. At first, I was reluctant to visit the hospital because grown men with large, scary tools is not a pretty image for an eight-year-old, but I knew the pain was only getting worse and that I had to go. A few moments after being examined
