My medical history has been nothing short of complicated from the very beginning. As an infant, my mother and nanny could only manage brief 45-minute naps while caring for me, as my body could only tolerate one ounce of formula per hour. Any more than that, and I would regurgitate it. Breast pumps weren’t affordable at the time, so I was primarily nourished by formula. My birth, too, was fraught with challenges. My mother was unable to dilate beyond an inch, enduring labor for over 22 hours. Then, alarmingly, my heart rate began to plummet. An emergency C-section was swiftly performed to save my life. Upon my arrival, I was diagnosed with temporary facial paralysis on one side, necessitating an MRI and a neurologist’s expertise. Weighing in at 5 pounds 13 ounces, I was the size of a premature baby, yet I wasn’t premature.

Despite a tumultuous start, my early childhood years were filled with joy. However, I continued to battle an unknown illness that plagued me. As a teenager, my health complications intensified. To my dismay, doctors began to dismiss my symptoms as hypochondria, suspecting I was merely trying to avoid school. This sentiment was echoed by school nurses, teachers, and even my parents. I apologize to my mother if she’s reading this, but she, too, began to doubt me, as did most of my family. Their skepticism is one reason I’ve ceased communication with nearly all of them, as they prefer to gossip rather than offer a sincere apology for their lack of support.

At fifteen, I met Dr. Cynthia See, a pediatric gastroenterologist specialist, who would change my life. For our appointment, I cleverly devised a chart to track my symptoms, their frequency, and intensity. Dr. See accurately diagnosed me, recommending two major surgeries: one on my esophagus and another on my pylorus—the passage that moves food from the stomach to the intestines. Tests revealed I lacked a flap in my esophagus to prevent acid reflux, and my pylorus was abnormally thickened. Normally, one should process 40% to 90% of their food in 90 minutes; my body was only managing 15%, causing food to stagnate in my stomach.

The esophageal surgery, initially a beacon of success, was tragically compromised by an ill-fated burrito. Despite my prescribed liquid diet, the oversight of the staff at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles led to a grievous error. In a place where care should have been paramount, the nurses, charged with my postoperative recovery, erred. The consumption of solid food, an act so seemingly harmless yet explicitly forbidden, was negligently overlooked. Within the hospital’s walls, where I sought refuge and healing, I found myself grappling with a renewed battle for well-being. But fate, with its cruel whims, saw fit to test my resilience once more. The nurses, whose duty it was to safeguard my fragile state, faltered, allowing a dire lapse in care. A single bite of the forbidden burrito became the harbinger of chaos. As it made its way down my throat, it felt as though a jagged knife was slicing through the delicate stitches of my esophagus. The ensuing pain was monstrous, a primal force that ravaged my body with unrelenting ferocity. This betrayal cut deeper than flesh; it was a violation of trust, a wound inflicted not by my longstanding illness but by those sworn to protect me. The excruciating sensation of the stitches tearing apart was a stark reminder of the isolation that had shadowed my journey, a journey I had traversed largely alone.

Now, at 28, my health issues are largely resolved, but my experiences have left me disillusioned with America’s healthcare system. I struggle to sympathize with others’ hardships, having been consistently neglected and unsupported during my own crises. I’ve endured the loss of my fiancé, family members, and friends, and have been diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder. My mental health has been likened to that of a Vietnam War veteran. I also suffer from hypokalemia, a condition that remains a mystery to my doctors.

Upon my arrival at the emergency room yesterday, the doctor dismissed my concerns with a cursory glance at my blood work, which showed no immediate abnormalities. This indifference was a stark contrast to the intrigue I had sparked in my previous physicians, who often referred to me as their ‘favorite puzzle’—a mystery they couldn’t quite solve. Yet, here I was, reduced to a mere footnote in the ER doctor’s busy schedule, my actual complaints lost in translation and erroneously recorded as simple cramps. The frustration mounted as I was forgotten, left to languish in the waiting area, invisible. My patience wore thin, and in a moment of defiance, I removed the IV line myself, a silent protest as my blood marked the pristine hospital floor—a visceral reminder of their neglect. When the nurse finally acknowledged my presence, claiming ignorance of my wait, it took every ounce of my self-restraint not to unleash the fury that bubbled within me—a far cry from my teenage years when I would have openly challenged a doctor’s competence. I even said to a emergency room doctor one time that he was completely useless.

Santa Clarita’s healthcare infrastructure is woefully inadequate, with only one hospital equipped with an emergency room. Henry Mayo’s exclusive contract with the city prevents the construction of additional hospitals, a policy that could prove catastrophic in a disaster. Financial constraints forced me to downgrade my health insurance, which means traveling to Panorama City Kaiser Hospital for emergencies, as Henry Mayo would only transfer me elsewhere.

At the heart of Henry Mayo’s operations lies a stark dichotomy: the pursuit of profit over the sanctity of patient care. In a brazen display of avarice, the administration once had the audacity to request that nurses—those on the front lines of healthcare—siphon off portions of their hard-earned salaries to fund the construction of a new patient tower. Meanwhile, the executives, ensconced in their ivory towers, lined their pockets with bonuses that soared into the millions. This insatiable greed has bled the hospital dry of its most valuable resource: a robust cadre of skilled nursing staff. The resulting scarcity has placed an untenable strain on the hospital’s resources, compromising the quality of care that is the right of every patient.

In my most vulnerable moments, when the specter of medical emergency loomed large, I have found myself dependent on the services of Lyft to ferry me to the emergency room. A decision borne not from preference, but necessity—to spare my mother and boyfriend, Chris, the weight of my health crises upon their shoulders. With my insurance, ANY ambulance ride costs me $1500 dollars.

This narrative is mine—a chronicle etched in the annals of resilience, a scathing indictment of a healthcare system riddled with flaws. It is a saga woven from the threads of personal victories in the face of relentless challenges, a clarion call for compassion, and a demand for sweeping reform. This is a plea for a revolution in empathy and action, to mend a system that has failed too many, for too long.