The Hardest Challenge I Have Ever Faced
I have meet with more than my share of difficult challenges. This one will remain with me always, occasionally playing over in my mind when I look at my son. It was April of 1993, the eve of Easter Sunday; my children and I were coloring Easter eggs in anticipation of the big hunt the following morning. The kids were excited and having a blast, especially my three-and-a-half- year old son Joey. With the eggs freshly colored and carrots left out for the Easter Bunny, I put my children to bed, prepared the Easter baskets and retired myself. What happened the next morning would change not only my perspective, but also my entire life.
As Easter morning arrived, I arose to discover that Joey was still sleeping, unusual for a three-year-old. When I tried to wake him, he said his back was hurting and he did not want to get up. I waited a little while, went back into his room and once again had a hard time arousing him. This time I asked him to stand up for me in an attempt to figure out what was bothering him. He must have been in tremendous pain; when he tried to stand he was unsteady, his little legs were shaking much like that of a frightened puppy. It was time to take him to the emergency room. Something was terribly wrong.
We arrived at the emergency room only to find several people already there. Joey was begging me to do something to stop the pain in his back; we waited and waited and waited. Finally, in total anger and despair I set out to find someone to help. The doctor came over, examined him and asked me several questions; it was slowly becoming apparent to me that this doctor did not have any answers. Meanwhile I was growing more concerned about the unknown; what was wrong with my child? The doctor, obviously puzzled by the situation, decided to run a CBC (complete blood count). This took what felt like an eternity, suddenly the doctor became somewhat evasive, almost secretive. I was exasperated, determined to find out what was wrong with Joey’s lab report. I inched my way over behind the curtain, so I could overhear bits and pieces of the doctor’s conversation. They were discussing things like a low hemoglobin count and a high white blood cell count, then I heard it, the most devastating word I have ever heard a doctor say-Leukemia.
No matter what obstacle or challenges we faced, we still managed to find solutions to our problems and kept being optimistic. Going through a rough childhood it is easy to harbor hate and bitterness but being able to look logically at a situation and motivate it to change you that is strength that Jeannette and I
Growing up, life wasn't easy. As a result of these adversities, I've been able to not only see, but personally experience, having a constant battle in my life. Throughout this journey of life, I’ve had the opportunity to meet people and learn about different backgrounds and hardships many others suffer from. These experiences,
In his book, “The Worst Hard Time”, writer Timothy Egan writes about the horrible days known as the Dust Bowl and the suffering of the people during the Great Depression. Egan does so by telling the stories of survivors that witnessed it which most of them were children at the time or farmers.
After the nurse drew my blood, she brought in a syringe filled with a clear substance, and she handed my mother and I the tube so we could read the tiny lettering printed on the side. Morphine. I had heard of the potent drug before, and it was hard to believe that it would soon be running through my veins. I instantly relaxed once the strong medicine was pushed into me, finally feeling a sense of comfort I had been deprived of for the last hour. My mother and I were left alone, and I could sense concern on her face. She soon called my Dad who sat at home with my two younger sisters, eagerly waiting to hear about the details of my emergency visit so far.
Any kid requires patience and care. Alan was a special kid that called for psychological treatment, treatment that wasn't offered in this small town. Since we both lived under the same roof for the past three years, I took it into my own hands to attempt to help him out. I was certainly not the most qualified person to help Alan, but being around him gave me the opportunity to advance on certain skills. I developed skills while taking care of him on my spare time. While taking care of him I attempted to
Each morning before school I took him to the hospital where he received blood transfusions or chemotherapy to treat the lymphoma that was destroying his body. After school, I raced home to complete my homework so that I could later go to his apartment. There I cooked meals, cleaned up, and administered his oral and intravenous medications. Working with IVs became second nature to me. I found myself familiar with the names of drugs like Cytovene, used to treat CMV, Neupogen, to raise one's white blood cell count, and literally countless others.
“What does that mean?” I thought to myself, “How long will it last?” “Am I going to die?” I sat back into the corner that the bed was in, and just sat there with my legs straight out. The doctor was talking to my mom about sending me to the hospital I assumed, but I wasn't paying attention because I was too busy taking in what just happened. I then walked over to the other chair next to my mom’s and sat down. My mom took some tissues out of her purse and started to blow her nose. I tried not to bawl to look tough like getting hit by a pitch in a baseball game, which I was successful in doing. I remembered talking about something like Diabetes in science class, and I remember talking about the pancreas. I also remembered the teacher, Mrs. Klevorn, telling us that there were two kinds of Diabetes, but I couldn't remember the difference between them; my fifth grade mind at the time didn't really care for this. After about three to four minutes of just sitting there, I asked the doctor what that meant. He told us that the pancreas makes a hormone called insulin that keeps blood sugar from getting too high. He said that my pancreas in particular didn't do its job. He explained the pancreas’ work like a hotel hallway with a bunch of doors; when sugar passed through the hallway, the doors would open and the insulin would flow out and lower my blood sugar. The doctor then told us he would call the hospital so we could basically
It was a cold sunday april morning, the sunday after easter. John, a father of 2, woke up to lots of tiny little footsteps running down the hallway, and then a big thump. He noticed the thump came from his chest. He opened his eyes to see his to children laying on his chest laughing. John pushed his kids off of him and started to wrestle with them. Within minutes the children were laughing so hard that they had tears running down their faces.
My cousin Josh reminds me of rainy skies filled with sagging clouds when sunshine bursts through and illuminates the world. I used to worry and get stressed about little occur. Our family’s tradition is, as juniors, we travel to Florida to stay with our grandparents. Unexpectedly, Josh had foot surgery, and our plans disintegrated. No playing on the beach, no swimming, no jet skiing, none of the activities we had dreamt about for years. As we waited in the airport, I felt terrible for him. The trip was a disaster, and instead of complaining about standing in the security line forever, Josh stood unbothered masking his pain. Arriving in Sarasota starving, I couldn’t wait to eat fresh fish, but we arrived so late nothing was open but Subway.
As a child the sight of an ambulance would send shivers down my spine, the flashing lights and loud horn, the panic as cars comes to a stop, and the terrifying events that followed. Being a witness to such commotion never seemed as horrendous until I became the person inside the ambulance. After experiencing headaches, sore throat, shortness of breath, and the lack of ability to move my left arm my parents sent out a distressed call to the paramedics who then rushed me into the E.R. Within the hour I was no longer on a gurney, but instead was on a hospital bed, tangled in color-coded wires to keep me alive. Hours passed, possibly even days, when I opened my eyes, only to find the words “ Sabrina’s room” on a dashboard in big pink letters. Injected into my left arm was an IV tube that dispensed antibiotic fluids into my suffering body. As I turned my head to look into the mirror I saw that my hair was shaved and a scar remained with staples over it, forming into the shape of an arc.
I had seen my blood before, but not this much at once. I could see the thick liquid flow and ooze within the bag. Without another word, the lady removed the needle wiped off my arm, and bandaged it up. I was heavily relieved. It still worried me that something may have gone wrong, and I was required to have the needle again. She unclipped the bag from the tube and took it away for examination. The results weren’t going to be in for a week, so we were free to leave afterwards. I quickly took my mind off the incident by playing a game on my phone. Flash forward to a week later: the results were in. Instead of a detailed description of my circulatory system, I got one simple answer: nothing was found. This was extremely confusing. Soon enough, this confusion became frustration. My parents paid an unqualified nurse to root around in my arm with a needle and stab me twice and all I got in return is: “nothing found”. There was supposed to be information about how I can work to grow up healthily, or at least something useful. I was left with two red marks and a nasty bruise on my arm for the next few weeks. I also had to deal with explaining what the marks on my arm were to everyone that saw
My dad died when I was twelve. In October of 2008, I was a normal ten year old, a fifth grader excited for Halloween. My mom worked at the Michael’s Arts and Crafts store on Robert C. Daniel Parkway and my dad was an Automotive Service Writer/Advisor for Sunbelt Nissan on Washington Road. My oldest brother Jeremy was in Delaware, his first duty station in the Air Force, while my middle brother Justin was still home. Justin had graduated from Evans High in May, and his Air Force basic training wouldn’t start until November. I loved my family the way every child does, with unending joy and compassion. I idolized my brothers, thought the top of the world was on my dad’s shoulders, and knew that my mom was the smartest person I’d ever met. I never once felt a shortage of happiness.
It was an ordinary Monday and Keith who was 15 and Linda who just turned 14 10 days ago were getting back from another boring day of school. It was a pretty sunny and warm that day. When they both get inside the house they see their mother Jane sitting on the couch silent as a rock. Keith and Linda were both staring blankly at their mother as they’ve never seen her act this way. Jane finally said that our step father passed away earlier that day. A couple months ago their step father had a seizure from the medicine he was taking for his heart transplant he received 15 years earlier. The medicine caused his blood to thin so he didn’t get enough oxygen to his brain. He has been hospitalized since then.
Three months passed by and he still was not himself. But, I was very grateful for his consciousness. I walked into his room. The room had a dim-lighting to it. Attached to a heart monitor, there he laid on the bed. My father had been wrapped in bandages from head to toe; only his face was exposed. Thankfully, he had been doing a lot
When an awe-inspiring person comes into your life, you can never really opine of how tremendously they will affect your life. I was born on November 11, 1992 into a loving family of a father, a mother, a brother, and a sister. I must have been so blessed. Some where along the line, however, our harmony was disrupted. My mother left my father to fend for both himself and me. During the divorce, my mother never even showed up to contend for at least some kind of custody of her newborn daughter. That was the day when the judge determined my father had full custody over his pink cheeked, vulnerable baby.