Miracle or Mistake?

I was in the fifth grade when life decided to hurl two more curveballs at me, back-to-back. At eleven years old, I received my first visit from the "Red Queen." Navigating something that not many of my classmates were experiencing made me feel even more like an outsider. The feelings cemented when I had to have my dad bring a change of clothes and pads for me one day due to an accident I had. I was still new to it, but I felt embarrassment all the same. Around the same time, I experienced something else none of my classmates had. I was in constant pain, crying often from my joints aching all over. My parents took me to a doctor, and after running multiple tests, we were told my diagnosis was JRA (Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis). I had to miss at least two weeks of school while my parents and I had to travel to a nearby state to receive the care I needed, as none of the institutions around us were equipped to do so. My parents had to carry me often and help me around the house, as the pain was so much that it took everything to bring myself to an upright position. Returning to school would prove to be a challenge, as well. I was now seen differently by classmates and teachers, too. As I returned to one of my classes, I was met with a shocking hostility. The day before I returned, the class had been disruptive. As a result, the next day when I had come back, the teacher decided to dole out the punishment she felt was necessary: writing sentences. I did not feel I should have been subjected to the punishment, as I had not even been there. My teacher, however, disagreed. She stood over me and would not leave my desk until I wrote the sentences, too. Now, I know most people would see it as nothing, just writing the same words over and over an exact number of times. For me, though, it was excruciating. I was in tremendous pain daily, especially when my joints became overworked. I was still forced to sit and write over and over, my fingers curling into a claw, tears streaming down my face, as she watched. She said I did not get a pass just because of my diagnosis.

She was not the only adult to make me cry due to my disorder. I regularly stayed over at a cousin's house, mostly on weekends. My uncle came to my house, along with my aunt and cousin, to pick me up one Friday after school. I was told as we got closer to their house that we had to make a stop at a grocery store before making it back. While we were getting parked and ready to go into the store, I informed all of them that per doctor's orders, I needed to be in a wheelchair in places where I would have to walk a lot. We only walked a couple of feet before my uncle turned quickly on his heels and told everyone to get back in the truck. He told me he "would not be seen pushing me around in a wheelchair" and if I could not walk myself, we would just leave, and the trip would be made later. Instead of going back to their house with them, I was taken back to my own home, with tears streaking my face, my weekend with my cousin halted. I ran inside, to my dad, and broke down, as he held me for a while. I was so hurt. I felt like nothing more than an embarrassment to someone I thought saw me differently.