My Papa always had a big personality, the kind that made a person drop whatever they were doing just to listen to him sing, laugh, tell a story- even if it was just a simple tale of washing the car- that was what made him the best performer. My Papa was always humming a melody, tapping a beat, bobbing his head to song that no one else could hear. Music was everything to him, for every memory he had there was a soundtrack, for every emotion he had felt over the years Papa could think of a song to perfectly relate to it- one that he and his family had lovingly dubbed as His Song was My Way by Elvis Presley. I had always looked up to the broad-shouldered man because of what he taught me to me about music- ranging from how to count the beats and find the chords, to just listening to notes with an open heart and seeing where it takes you. This man was filled with life in the best way, and everyone wanted to be around him because of it.
That being said, my Papa dying was probably the best thing that
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had happened this summer. After having his first stroke in 2007, Gilbert “Marty” Martinez was just not the same man as before. The doctors explained that Papa’s past caught up to him in his old age, and that his blood had begun to clot in his left hemisphere and the damage caused him to have trouble remembering, speaking, understanding language, and slight paralysis on his right side. At 9 years old, these words meant nothing to me but now after taking biology and Anatomy & Physiology I realize that things could have been way worse objectively; I used to believe death to be the worst thing that could happen, but after this experience I saw it could be much worse. Watching this powerhouse of a man become a husk of himself showed me a person can still live but not as themselves. His laugh was more subdued, his stories became time-wasters rather than a way to pass the time, and more importantly he began to forget his music. Still, we as a family picked up the pieces and continued to love the man that was pretending to be my grandfather the best we could.
I took up choir in the fourth grade onto 10th grade so I could find some way to stay connected to my Papa, before the stroke. Papa then had to take medication every day to prevent another stroke, which worked for a while, until his stubborn side raised its ugly head in the worst way. On July 3rd, he suffered another stroke; we were notified on July 6th that a John Doe matching his description was found in the ICU at Denver Mercy Hospital. After two months of torturous hope he died on August 5th after 10 hours of organ failure. I thought I had already mourned the man. We all remembered that the man that had just gone was not same one we lost in 2007. Even though somewhere inside us knew he wouldn’t recover from this latest stroke, it still hit my family hard with regrets and dark thoughts; but in the bigger picture we were relieved to see him
go. My Papa had three deaths in his lifetime his first stroke, his last stroke, and finally the actual act of life leaving his body. It might be selfish, but I choose to remember him from his first life; where his every heartbeat was a music note. Now everywhere I go, I am always humming a melody, tapping a beat, bobbing my head to song no one else can hear.
"No. I will only pay for you to do something, not the dog." said Howie.
Seventeen years ago, I came bounding into a world of love and laughter. I was the first child, the first grandchild, the first niece, and the primary focus of my entire extended family. Although they were not married, my parents were young and energetic and had every good intention for their new baby girl. I grew up with opportunities for intellectual and spiritual growth, secure in the knowledge that I was loved, free from fear, and confident that my world was close to perfect. And I was the center of a world that had meaning only in terms of its effect on me-- what I could see from a height of three feet and what I could comprehend with the intellect and emotions of a child. This state of innocence persisted through my early teens, but changed dramatically in the spring of my sophomore year of high school. My beloved father was dying of AIDS.
Pádraic Keane, one of the professionals brought in to teach the tin whistle section of our module was one of the first musicians I heard speak on the notion of family. Coming from a linage of musicians he grew up surrounded by music. Specifically his father, Tommy Keane, was is also a renowned musician. He spoke to us about his natural tendencies and this sense of being drawn to the music. Many artists are connected to their work through their passion; however with Pádraic you could see a deeper connectio...
The people who I look up to is my mom and my dad. Ever since I was born, they helped me with my problem that I have. Every day after school my mom would help me with my homework, because most of the time I don’t understand my assignment, that she knew how to do some math work, because I would forget how to answer my math, while my dad is at work. On his days off me and my dad would sometimes go fishing in the river or a lake, because he would like to spend time with. Other times we would go hunting for deer or bird, because it would be boring if we didn’t do
I never would have imagined feeling like an outsider in my own home. Unfortunately I wouldn’t even go as far as considering my current home as “my home.” I live in a house with eight people and two dogs and for some, that might not even be slightly overwhelming, but for me it is. I try to keep my heart open about the situation, but I always end up feeling like I don’t belong. Given the circumstances of my situation, I would say life definitely turned out better than what I initially expected, but I was left feeling like a “stranger in a village” having to live with a family that is nothing like my own.
Imagine yourself living in a hospital for almost two years, not being able to walk or not seeing any of your friends. Pretty hard to image, is it not? This is why my cousin Ryan Weber has inspired me most in my life. Ryan was very sick when he was around fourteen years old, he had a stroke. It was one of the worst events that happened in my life and in my family’s life.
The well being of family was always the most important thing to my grandfather and he made sure every member of the family felt loved and accepted. I was in third grade when we lost him. My dad lost his best friend. It seemed to me that my dad’s wind was taken away f...
I learned of my father’s identity for the first time after I heard my mother, Penelope--queen of Ithaca--, speaking to one of our servants about him. Later that night, I had asked her about him--one of many times though--but this time… something was different. With tears in her eyes, she finally told me about my father. “He left to fight the war against the brutes of Troy. He said that he would not be gone long, that because the gods were on our side, that they would bring us victory. That was twenty years ago, the war was over seven years ago, and still no word from your father, his men, or the gods.” After she told me this, she pulled the soft, silky sheets up tightly around my neck, put her finger on my nose, and whispered quietly, “There
All day and night, I went through several medical tests to see why I had on a stroke. As much as I wanted to know the reason, the doctors couldn’t find one either. Besides everything that experienced at the hospital, the most important part of it all was that I had regained feeling on my right side of my body and was ready to leave the hospital. My eyes lit up as bright as stars in a night sky when I heard that I could leave the hospital in a couple of days. Not like the hospital wasn't relaxing or anything, but I was ready to return to my normal life.
"Daddy? When are we going to be home?" I asked licking my double chocolate chip ice cream cone.
In December, my father suffered a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm. His heart stopped twice during the operation, and he was not expected to survive. He had an intensive recovery period, and I wanted nothing more than to make him better immediately. His trauma had made me impatient and afraid to hope. I was having trouble waiting for things to unfold naturally and wanted to know what would happen in the end. Simple, everyday decisions or occurrences took on great importance.
For a majority of my childhood, I continued to primarily listen to my Mother’s music. I was enthralled to the harmonious rhythm and “Motown Sound,” which is defined as music that is crafted towards a pop appeal with prominent melodic bass-guitar lines, a distinctive chord structure and a call-and-response singing style. Although, it was more than just the addictive and melodic rhythm that would mesmerize me, instead it was that the songs always encompassed a storyline, whether it be a love story or a story about loss or pain. Over the course of my childhood, these songs eventually became a part of who I am and how I would associate or link a few of my childhood memories and even a few of my emotions. Accordingly, music played and continues to be a strong influence in my identity.
One person that I care for very deeply is my dad. He is The reasons he means so much to me is because he helps me whenever I need help, plays sports with me, and he is just like one of my friends.
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.