The doctor ended his visit by explaining that while in the hospital, I would have to be absolutely precise about eating only what was brought on my tray. “You can do that, can’t you?” 

The restrictions I would be facing for the rest of my life seemed permanent and inescapable now, and heavy. Tears were threatening to give me away, so I just nodded. I wanted him to believe I would have no trouble giving up candy, and I wished he would leave my room. He had barely disappeared into the hallway when I burst into tears and wailed at my mother, “I...just...want...dessert!”     

Mom put her arms around me and assured me it would all get easier, but I could tell she didn’t believe it either. I saw the sad, weary look on her face. I was in for a long haul, and we both knew it. Afterwards, I couldn’t believe I had acted like such a baby, crying over a candy bar. But it wasn’t just about the candy. It was about everything happening to me all at once. It was about the hazards that lay ahead, hinted at, but not clearly defined. My life plan, whatever part of it was already in place in my ten-year-old dreams, was slipping away.