When one gets diagnosed with cancer, trivial things can suddenly become a big deal. On Halloween night, a few friends together with my brother and I decided to go trick-or-treating, seeing as it was our last year that we could get away with it. I untied my headscarf, stole a pair of my dad’s wire-rimmed glasses, and grabbed a sheet and a walking stick. Hunched over, I introduced myself as Gandhi. So, from house to house we went, chewing on Twizzlers and Laffy Taffys as we walked. Not being quite the highly coordinated, aged Indian man that that I thought I was, I toppled over, somehow resulting in the mysterious removal of my shoe and sock and some very minor scratches on two of my toes. I initially thought nothing of the matter and didn’t feel a thing. But Tuesday night (three days later), my foot started hurting. The next day I awoke to a throbbing and swollen foot. Frantically, my father called Ghostbusters! (Just kidding, he called the hospital.) We learned from my pediatrician that these tiny scratches were, in fact, infected. Unable to walk, I resorted to the use of crutches. They put me on Clidamyacin, an antibiotic. Since then, the swelling and redness has decreased considerably. Halloween was not the only night we got a fright.
From left to right: Gandhi, the wicked Mallory,
effeminate Aaron, and unibrowed Ari.
