I couldn't breathe.

I didn’t understand what was going on. I only knew something was wrong.

I was sixteen then. I could’ve been sixty and still not known what was happening to me.

That was all I remembered before I fell asleep. Well, I thought I was asleep. I don’t even remember that part. I think I was asleep because it felt like being asleep.

The doctors called it a "coma." Just that word scared me.

But there was something even more scary. They didn’t know why I couldn’t breathe. It could happen again.

And it did.

It was a month later. One minute, I was in my bedroom getting dressed for school. My mom was calling me from the kitchen.

“Kristena, is your school bag ready?”

The next minute, I was back in the hospital. Instead of my mom’s voice, a stranger was saying, “Kristena, just breathe slowly.”

The doctors ran more tests. It was useless. They still didn’t know why I couldn’t breathe. 

Do you think it happened again?

It sure did.

With each new episode I grew more sad and more scared.

It bothered my parents as much as it bothered me. It also made them act weird. They started asking a lot more questions after they brought me home from the hospital. They kept asking how I was feeling.

My teachers and pals at school asked me that same thing.

A few kids asked what exactly was wrong with me.

I didn’t mind what other people said. At least, that’s what I told myself at the start. I thought it was nice of them to ask. But it made me embarrassed too, not being able to explain myself.

Each time I went to the hospital, my mom held my hand the whole night. My dad was there too. He would give me his hand when my mom was tired.

On my third visit, Dad was talking to someone at the hospital about some papers. I overheard them mentioning money. Dad’s face didn’t look happy.

I looked at my mom, sitting at the side of my bed. I asked her, “Does dad have enough to pay the doctors?”

Mom rubbed my chest and simply said, “Don’t worry. Just relax. It’ll be ok.”

It wasn’t. They didn’t have enough and needed to save money.

A few weeks later, we moved from the Upper West Side into a neighborhood called Helwick. It’s the part of New York City where apartment rooms are smaller and older. They are dirtier and more crowded too. Graffiti is everywhere.

My parents tried to hide it from me. But I wasn’t stupid. We had moved to the poorer part of the city. The air smelled bad. People didn’t look happy there. 

Helwick wasn’t where I wanted to live. And the worst part was that it was all my fault.

Late one night, my parents heard me crying and rushed to my room.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry,” I cried. I pulled out my hair until my scalp started to bleed.

“No,” my parents said. “Don’t blame yourself. We’re going to get you the right help. We won’t stop until you get better. We promise.”

Over the next several weeks, I went to more doctor offices than I want to remember. They were all the same, except one. I didn’t notice the difference at first. But that’s how life went for me. It was full of surprises.

It was a Wednesday morning. My homeroom teacher passed me a note from someone named William H. Toussaint. He had these letters after his name: PhD and PsyD.

The note told me to meet Dr. Toussaint this afternoon. It was scribbled with a sloppy drawing of the school building that showed how to get to his office. It was on the top floor by the corner, far from the usual busyness of the school.

When I came to Dr. Toussaint’s door, it was wide open, but the small office was dark. The blinds were shut. The only light came from a tiny desk lamp. It gave the room a warm glow.

A man with a short beard was sitting behind a desk, writing. He was wearing small, silver-framed glasses and a brown jacket. His tie seemed too small for him.

“Kristena?” the man behind the desk said. He looked up briefly at me, his pen still moving. 

“Yes,” I said, looking in slowly with my head. The rest of my body was still in the doorway.

“Don’t be afraid. Come in," he said. "Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a second.”

Dr. Toussaint seemed to be signing papers. He was writing something short and swift on every page.

I looked around the office.

Small plants were hanging above us. On his window sill, there was a football-sized rock. On the wall behind his desk was a brightly colored painting. It was a giant butterfly. Next to that was another painting of a little girl dressed in a white Easter bonnet. She wore a sad expression on her face. Dr. Toussaint looked up for a moment and caught me staring at that painting.

“Do you like Monet?” he asked. 

“Who?” 

“Claude Monet was the artist for that painting. Really something, isn’t it?” He put down his pen and took off his glasses. “So," he said, "how are you?”

He reached out his hand as he moved to the other chair in front of the desk. He sat just a few inches away from me.

“I’m fine,” I replied. I pushed my chair back a little.

He smiled. We were silent for a few seconds.

“Kris-teen-a. Am I pronouncing that right?” he asked politely.

“Kris-ten-a,” I corrected him, emphasizing the short vowel sound in the middle.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must get a lot of people who mispronounce your name.”

“Yeah, but it’s a weird name,” I admitted. “Most people just call me Kristen. No 'a' at the end. The ones who remember my full name mispronounce it as Christina. At least they all get the 'Kris' part right.”

Dr. Toussaint put on his glasses and read something in the folder on his lap. “I see you skipped two grades. Once in elementary school. Again in middle school. Now, you’re one year away from starting college when most kids are just getting used to high school. Wow, this is really something!”

“I blame it on my math scores,” I said.

He lifted his head when I said that. “Interesting that you put it like that,” he said, with a tilt of his head. “It's great that you love math so much.”

We were silent again.

“Can you tell me a little more about yourself, Kristena?” Dr. Toussaint eventualy asked.

I looked at my watch. “How much longer until I can get back to class?”

“Why the rush?” 

“I have a math quiz," I said. "I just need to know what’s wrong with me. Can you tell me?"

"First I need to know a bit more about you.”

“Ok, well, what do you want to know?" I asked, looking at my watch again.

“Don’t worry about that quiz. Tell me anything," he said. "What do you usually tell people when they first meet you?”

“Well, my mom is Irish Catholic. We don’t eat meat on Fridays. It’s weird because I love steak and so does my dad," I said. "He isn’t religious. He’s from Japan. They sorta meet in the tea. They both love tea, but I drink juice.”

Dr. Toussaint laughed.

“My mom can’t handle chopsticks, but my dad doesn’t like forks and spoons,” I said.

“Was it hard growing up with two cultures?” he asked.

“Why are you asking all these questions about my parents?” I asked him.

“I’m simply trying to get to know you better. Tell me more,” he prompted.

“My mom is good at Irish dancing. She tried to teach my dad but he wasn’t into it as much," I said.

He nodded.

“Look, I know why I’m here," I said. "I gotta ask again. Can you fix me?”

“We’ll get to that," Dr. Toussaint promised. "For now, I just want us to get to know each other. Is that ok?”

I nodded and looked again at the painting of the little girl.

We talked about his love of art. He told me some stories about his other hobby, fishing.

He asked me what I like to do besides math. I told him I like reading.

All in all, I actually enjoyed that first chat with him. He was nice, but still, it didn’t help. I was beginning to hope I was getting better, but...

then I couldn’t breathe again.

The trip to the hospital was worse this time. They took me to the part of the hospital for the sickest patients. They ran more advanced tests. That was another word for more expensive tests.

How could this happen again? I felt like my world was starting to spin right on its axis again.

My dad was there to hold my hand through all the tests.

“Kristena, Kristena,” my dad would whisper in my ear. “I love you very much.” He repeated it over and over.

His tears were dripping on my cheek. It was like Niagara Falls. I felt like saying, “I love you too, Dad, but can you please use a tissue?”

The problem was that it was hard to speak. It was like my jaw muscles were locked. In fact, all my muscles were so tight I was like one big cramp. 

My dad lost his job for being by my side so much. That didn’t make my mom happy.

“I have to go to my new job now. Your mom will be here later when she gets off from work. See you tonight, my little star,” my dad said.

My test results came back. They still couldn’t find anything wrong. They were discharging me. I had to wait for my mom to come and take me home.

It was so boring just lying down in bed. I wandered around the halls until my mom came.

I saw many different patients. Some looked like they were in physical therapy. A few were on stretchers. Others were walking around like me. They were all kids. Some were older than me and some were younger. But they were all just kids.

In one large room, I overheard a young woman speaking in a lovely British accent. She was reading Emily Dickinson poems to a boy.

The boy had deep, dark brows and a strong, square jaw. His chin reminded me of the kind Superman or Batman has.

I kept listening to the woman read. It felt strange to hear such beautiful words. They didn’t match this place. The only other sounds here were people coughing, groaning, and sometimes crying or screaming. The poetic sound of those words was so comforting.

She looked at me as I approached. When I sat down, I asked her, “May I listen too?"

“Of course,” she said. “We’d love a bigger audience. Right, Lam?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“I just love Emily Dickinson,” I said. We started chatting about her poems. Then I asked the boy, “Do you like her poems too?”

“Oh, he doesn’t speak,” the woman said quietly. She explained that she was a volunteer who reads to patients.

The woman noticed the time and said she had to leave. She didn’t realize it was so late.

“Any chance I can keep reading to him?” I asked.

“That would be great. His mom’s around the corner. She’ll be here soon.” She turned to the boy and waved. “Bye, Lam!”

I saw another book on the table next to us. It was by Charles Dickens. I read that to Lam for a good ten minutes.

“I see you’ve met my dashing young gentleman,” a woman interrupted. She was trying to imitate a British accent too. She wasn’t as good with accents as the volunteer, but she had a friendly voice. She stroked the boy’s hair. “How are you, Lam, my sweetheart?”

I noticed her kind eyes and light brown skin. They were just like her son’s. She had straight, dark hair. Some of it was grey. Her long face was full of smiling wrinkles.

“I’m Kristena,” I said.

“I’m Acia. Thanks so much for reading to him. He has a stack of books at home that I read to him every day.” She looked at Lam and sighed. Then her eyes looked up and down at my patient gown. “Oh my, how are you, dear? Are you ok?”

“Better. Thanks for asking," I said. "I’m being discharged soon.”

“Awesome!” She gave me a big thumbs up. “Lam’s little heart is giving us troubles again. But he’s being discharged too. I just got his papers.”

“That’s awesome too! Well, nice to meet you both,” I said.

Acia didn’t seem like she wanted to leave.

“Kristena, you have such a lovely voice. Do you want to keep reading to Lam?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do,” I answered.

I must have read for an hour. When I finally put the book down, Acia was still smiling.

“Thanks again, Kristena!” She put her hands together and clapped. “Lam and I sure loved your reading. I can tell from your voice that you love literature. You must read a lot!”

“Here and there… whenever I have the time,” I said.

“There’s a library near us that has readings of the classics every Tuesday. Lam and I are there each time. Front row! Come by, we’ll save you a seat!” she said.

I actually did go to the library. After several visits, Acia even invited me to come to their home and read to Lam again myself.