The last test they decided to take was the fructose intolerance breath test. It was on the Friday before my sixth grade camp. They had me go into a room and drink 8 oz. of pure fructose, then go out of the room and do whatever I wanted to in the waiting room for three and a half hours. Every fifteen minutes I had to take a breath into a special bag, then every thirty minutes, then an hour, until it had been three hours. I was reading, drawing, writing, playing on my iPod, that sort of thing. The only thing I wasn’t allowed to do was eat or drink. They told us that the test results would come by Sunday or so, and if not, definitely the next week.
We left, and we were thinking that I didn’t have it, because I had felt fine after I drank all that fructose. Fun fact: I did not have fructose intolerance, so technically we were right. Malabsorption is not as bad as intolerance. If you have fructose intolerance, hats off to you.
The test results did not come back by Sunday, like we thought. I went to camp on Wednesday, and I had fun, because I was still thinking I didn’t have it. I came back Friday afternoon. My mom was talking to somebody, but she stopped when she saw me. We went home a few hours later (because she worked at my school).
We arrived home and she gave me chicken, rice, and spinach…but with a different flavor.
“Mom, what did you flavor this with? It doesn’t taste bad, but it’s different.”
“Garlic-infused oil,” she had replied.
I kept eating, when suddenly she holds out this small white pill.
“Sweetie, I talked to the doctor over the phone, and he wants you to have this antibiotic.”
At that point I was on the verge of tears, because if she had talked to the doctor, that probably meant…
“Was it positive?”
She nodded again, and I started crying.