I let out a desperate gurgle of panic as I watched the pool of red forming on the hardwood floor. My mother rushed in, yelling, “What’s wrong?” Then everything moved in slow motion. I saw my mother’s face go white, and I could tell she was thinking what I was thinking: that I was going to die.

They said it was a routine surgery, and any complications would be “no big deal.” How could a simple tonsil surgery go so wrong? Approximately 500,000 tonsillectomies are performed each year, and most go the same way: a quick surgery, a couple weeks of mushy food, and on with normal life. Not me. My surgery and recovery were anything but routine.

My parents and I arrived at Boston Children’s Hospital around 7. A nurse escorted me to my temporary hospital bed for pre-op paperwork, a change into hospital clothes, and an IV. I was fine with everything except the IV. There’s nothing I despise more than needles.

“My veins are small, just so you know,” I warned the nurse.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Just one small pinch, and it will be all done.” She smiled and started to set up the IV in my right hand. I gripped my mother’s hand with my left and watched the nurse’s every move.

Her happy-go-lucky expression faded into a frown as she fished the needle around under the skin. “Wow, they are small,” she mumbled. She pulled the needle out and covered the spot with gauze. “Hold this. I’ll be right back.” She forced a smile and left.

A few minutes later a doctor came in. “Hi there,” he said, kneeling beside my bed. “I heard you have some tricky veins. Mind if I take a look?”

Yes, I do mind, I thought, offering my left hand.

I watched the young doctor the way I’d watched the nurse: like a hawk. He too fished around a little but eventually got it working. His methods were painful, but effective.

“Do you want to punch me in the face now?” he said, jokingly. He knew it hurt.

“No,” I lied.

I sat still, trying to keep my mind off the IV. I had never had surgery before and soon realized that learning all about “what to expect during and after a surgery” from Google probably hadn’t been the best idea. Even though there were interesting facts, the most highlighted topics were what could go wrong.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” I said to my mother.

“There’s no reason to be worried. You’re in the best possible hands.” She gave me a warm smile. “Plus, it will be over before you know it.”

My dad piped in, “It’s a tonsil surgery … come on, how can they mess that up?”

The nurse told us it was time. I took a deep breath. My parents were right. There was no reason to get all worked up. This surgery was going to help me breathe better.

•••

Lights glared in my eyes as I heard the faint sound of my name. “Sarah …” my mother called. I started to become more aware of my surroundings – and my unbearably sore throat. The space where my tonsils had been now felt like it was filled with a million tacks. Each time I swallowed, the tunnel of tacks constricted, piercing my skin.

The nurse handed my father the discharge information. “The most important thing is to not eat anything but liquid-like foods for a couple weeks. And nothing red. We don’t want to mistake a red Popsicle with actual blood. If you happen to see any blood in your saliva or on your pillow, call an ambulance.”

If I could describe my state during the next six days in one word, it would be “miserable.” I couldn’t eat anything that appealed to me. It was torture for a diehard pasta lover: I was only allowed pasta if it was overcooked and chopped up into a million little pieces, then drenched in chicken broth. To be honest, a spoon was unnecessary. It would have been more efficient just to drink it. Along with eight glasses of water a day, that was my new diet. I just couldn’t get used to it. Not being able to eat normally made me reach a new level of ravenous hunger.

One week after my surgery, I cracked. My stomach turned as I looked at my twentieth bowl of chicken broth and pasta.

“Mom, could you please make this a tiny bit more appetizing? Maybe add some grated cheese or something?”

My mother sighed. “I can add some butter to give it flavor, but grated cheese is a no-no.”

“A little cheese isn’t going to hurt,” I pleaded, swirling the soup with my spoon.

“Fine, just a little.”

I inhaled that bowl of soup with glee. A few minutes later, I felt what I assumed was post-nasal drip running down the back of my throat. Disgusting.

I spit into a tissue, and that was when I realized it was blood. A lot of blood.

Choking, I screamed to my mother, who ran in and froze. She was in shock, a state I would have been in if I wasn’t trying ever so hard not to die. My mother, in a panic, dialed 911.

“My daughter – she recently had a tonsil surgery and she’s bleeding, like really bleeding. She can barely breathe!”

Following the 911 operator’s instructions, my mother got a trash bin and had me lean over it so the blood wouldn’t flow down my throat. That limited the choking, but now I could see just how much blood I was losing. By the time the EMTs arrived, I was severely nauseated and feeling woozy.

The EMTs came in nonchalantly. One even asked me my name and what was going on. Seriously? We’ve got a real genius over here, people. It might be a good idea to stop asking questions and take the girl throwing up blood to a hospital.

Soon, but not soon enough, they loaded me into the ambulance with my mother next to me.

“We don’t know if it’s safe to move her,” the EMT whispered to my mother. “We have some doctors rushing over right away, but all we can do is monitor her. She’s starting to clot, which is good, but it’s an arterial bleed; those have a pretty strong flow.”

Could this get any worse? I thought.

In my peripheral vision, I spotted a man with a needle. Of course.

Even though I despised having an IV put in, I was too disoriented and lethargic to react. I just remember doctors performing an evaluation and then rushing me to the nearest hospital.

Once there I was prepped for emergency surgery to stop the bleeding. My vision was starting to fade, but I remember my grandmother and mother holding each other tightly and reassuring me, “Sarah, you’re going to be fine, just fine.”

The surgery was a success, but I had to stay in the hospital for four days. The doctors explained that this kind of thing was completely unexpected. In other words, they had no idea why my artery broke open in my throat, but they were confident that they had fixed the problem.

Sure, they fixed the problem. They fixed it so well that after being discharged, I bled again exactly one week later, like clockwork. It was not nearly as bad the second time, but I was hospitalized again. Once again, they were stumped.

Each disastrous day added a new challenge. My recovery time was pushed back another month. That was my first year of middle school, and I was surprised that anyone knew my name when I returned two months later.

Even then, things didn’t go back to normal. I was underweight and anemic. I could barely walk to the bathroom and back without getting winded, never mind walking to and from class, so I went to school for half days. I had so much makeup work that during the last two weeks of my recovery, I hired a tutor to help me catch up. Ultimately, most teachers didn’t even give me a grade; they just marked an M for medical.

Each time I tell this story, I get the same reactions: “Oh my God, that’s terrible!” “Wow! From a tonsil surgery?” However, some people say I’m lucky, which I could never wrap my head around. “I almost died and wasn’t myself for over a year. How is that lucky?” I would say.

Looking back now, I do see why. I am lucky, not because this terrible thing happened, but because of one important thing: I almost died. “Almost” is the key word. I’m lucky because I survived.