When I was ten years old, my life was drastically different than those of the other fourth graders surrounding me. While others spent recess in the open air running out their endless energy in the warm sun, I spent the hour in the library. Attempting to help the librarian sort books, I was so weak that after a short fifteen minutes I found myself seated against the shelves reading anything and everything to take myself away from reality. My friends had playdates multiple times a week after school. I went home to sleep and rest my disease-riddled body. Other kids sneezed or coughed during a test. I had the piercing squeal of a nutrition pump go off that never failed to make every head turn.

The thing I envied the most, however, were the scrapes and bruises that made each child cry. A cut was the worst pain their small lives had ever encountered, and for me, I would have given anything to feel the pain of a scratch as compared to that of an inflamed pancreas. My pain involved screaming at all hours of the night, to the point where in my sleep, my one refuge, my dreams were no longer filled with castles and fairytales, but with images of lying in a hospital bed shaking from the all-too-real pain.

After one particularly complicated procedure, my doctor told my mom and me about a patient named Alyssa with pediatric pancreatitis who had her procedure right before mine. A patient just like me. My mind wandered of the possibilities of having a girl just a mere year older than me staying in the room next door. Someone who was outstandingly abnormal. Someone who could relate to my pain. Someone who could finally tell me honestly and truly that they understood. Alyssa made it out of her procedure and shortly after, we developed a form of communication through the nurses until we were both strong enough to meet face to face. A small whiteboard had been gifted to me through one of the numerous visitors, and I poured my heart and soul into writing letters to the first child who suffered from pancreatitis I had ever met. Once finished, I would give the board to a nurse who would dutifully deliver the note to Alyssa.

Our “hospital pen pal friendship” or “HPPF” communication continued until Alyssa was able to make the walk over to my room. Our conversation stretched from one of tears to one of laughter, and while I don’t remember what we said, I remember exactly how it felt to have someone look at you and say two simple words that can mean the world: I understand. And since then, whenever I visit another pancreas patient who feels like their world is falling apart, I hold them in a hug and utter those words so they can know just what it feels like to be loved, and understood. -By Rebecca Taylor