Personal Narrative: My Life As A Young Golf Player

“Mitchell! It’s time!” my mom shouted from down the stairs. Nearly in tears, I sluggishly sauntered down the stairs, stalling with every step I took. Loathing this walk toward the kitchen table, I would rather be absolutely anywhere else in the world than sitting at the kitchen table doing this. After pulling the chair out from the table, I finally took a seat. The placemat was already positioned on the table along with all of the necessary equipment. “Mom, I don’t need this,” I tried convincing her, however, the pain in my leg knew that was a lie. Although I knew all of this worry would be behind me in just a few minutes, the sight of the syringe and tourniquet were making me sick to my stomach. Furthermore, all of my focus was on the frightening needle as it rested in my mom’s trusting hand.

Growing up with Hemophilia has provided me with a different childhood than most children. Living with a rare

Fighting through the immense pain in my shin, I continued to play until the end of the game. After the match, I pulled down my sock to espy what looked like a golf ball under my skin. When my mom saw my shin, her first response was, "I’m giving you a shot as soon as we are home." I would always try to ease my way out of it by saying "I'll just ice it and it'll be fine" even though I truly knew a shot was the only effective way to treat my injury. The minute we arrived home, my mom would find all of the necessary medical equipment and set it on the kitchen table. She would mix the factor, fill the syringe, and have all the medical supplies sterilized. By the time I sat down in the chair next to her, she had already completed all of the preparatory work except the actual shot itself. My mom would search for an accessible vein and insert the needle just as the doctor trained her to do. This was the same procedure we used for all of my injuries up until my high school