Every year, as required by law, my brother, Jonah, has to have his epipen replaced. He is severely allergic to peanuts, and less allergic to kiwis, dogs, cats, and bad attitudes. In the early spring of 2011, his new epipens arrived. There were two actual pens and one practice stick. All three looked identical—you had to read the fine print on the sides to tell them apart. Mom showed Jonah and I the pens, and explained to use how they were used. She taught us how to give Jonah his shot with the practice pen, just in case there was ever an emergency. I was fascinated for reasons that I don’t know, but I proceeded in stabbing myself in the leg with the practice pen multiple times (you know, just in case it would ever save my life.) It had saved Jonah’s before, so this was important knowledge for me to have. Mom told all of my siblings and I that she would put on epipen in her purse, and the other in the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet. We all nodded as she warned us never to play with them because they were for Jonah’s allergy emergencies only.

That day was cleaning day at our house. Once a week, we would each be assigned to thoroughly clean a room in the house. Mom put me on the upstairs bathroom. I was a distracted child. I managed to play with Esther’s bath toys, skate across the floor on a towel, and bother my other siblings before I started. As I was cleaning the medicine cabinet, I noticed the practice pen on the top shelf. Eager to build my skills even more, I pressed the end against my fingertip and clicked the opposite end. I leaned down and studied my finger. A drop of blood appeared, and grew bigger and bigger. I shrieked, and ran downstairs to Mom, who was cleaning the kitchen. In tears I told her the story. She looked at my finger, and frowned at me.

“If you had been doing what I told you to do, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself hurt,” she said.
I wailed.
“Honey, are you really in that much pain?”
“No… I’m just gonna get poisoned and die,” I replied, shaking my head. My hand felt cold, but I always imagined pains and symptoms when there was even the slightest sign of trouble.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Usually, Mom would ask this as a joke, but she looked dead serious.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. The bleeding has stopped—it was only a little prick, but I was still terrified.

Mom calmly called 911 (another thing we were never supposed to do) and soon, an ambulance arrived in our driveway. I had seen one before, from when my brother had eaten peanuts and had needed to use the epipen. Now it was here for me, a nine-year old who had never been to the hospital before.

The EMT’s talked to me, and one told me that he had done the same thing too, and that he was just fine. That stopped my tears. I wasn’t scared anymore, but Mom still took me to the hospital. Instead of riding the ambulance, we drove.

Once at the emergency room, a nurse came and put a white clip over my finger that blinked red. Mom explained that it determined how much I needed attention. Soon, a nurse came and took me back to a bed with warmed sheets and helped me change into a hospital gown. I lay there for three hours, talking to Mom. She tried to hide it, but I could see that she was disappointed that we were there when nothing seemed to be wrong.

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“I’m being pampered in the hospital!” I told her, grinning.

We left as soon as the nurse returned and said everything would be okay and we could leave now. When we got home my siblings pounded me with questions. I answered them all.