(no subject)
first draft of my very first college english paper.it's a narrative. it's about my dad. you all are welcome and encouraged to critique it and help me edit and revise it. here it is.
When someone has a cold, I make them soup and read them stories. When they have the flu I brew their tea and toast their bread. It’s almost instinctual for me to care for someone when they are sick or hurting. The greatest thing I ever did for my dad was to stick by his side and care for him when he needed me the most.
I remember the night painfully clearly. It was springtime, a time that was suppose to be happy. I was suppose to be thinking about the blooming of the flowers, the greening of the grass, the freshness in the air that warned us summer was soon coming. But all I could think about was the diagnosis they had given him 8 months earlier. "His cancer is in the fourth stage, there is no stage five." I thought to myself, "What? Not my dad! He is only 44! Not my dad." But still the specialists and the staff told us, "We give him between 2-6 months. Please prepare yourself for this time." He was hurting a lot. "We’ll do our best to make him comfortable," they said. It was all we could do.
Fluorescent hospital lights. Pills and liquids that were suppose to ease his pain. "One last Holiday"s. Fitting in the words "I love you" as many times as I could in a day. Wondering if this was the last night I would have a father. This is what was on my mind that spring night. I was laying on my grandma’s couch. We were staying there because my dad was more comfortable and we could care for him better there. He was sleeping in the guest room behind me. I had just closed my eyes it seems, had just let lose of the anxiety enough to sleep for a little bit, when I heard an intrusive "BEEP BEEP BEEP" coming from my dad’s room. I knew that sound. It was his pain pump, something was wrong with it. Usually it was easy to fix, such as an IV being pinched. But this time something bigger wrong. They couldn’t seem to fix it. I laid there on the couch, listening to my stepmom and my dad call the on call nurse. This was going to be an all night ordeal, I just knew it.
I walked my dad out to the living room and helped him sit in the rocking chair. By now the cancer had attacked his body so cruelly that he could not even walk by himself. But I didn’t mind. I put one hand behind his back, to help his balance, and took slow steady paces with him until we reached our destination. Once he was comfortable I quickly went back to the guest room to get his oxygen tank, which was a very heavy thing, a burden which you had to lug across the room and plug back in every morning and night. It was heavier than I would have liked, but I didn’t mind. He needed it, so I would bring it to him.
Once he got his oxygen back, I asked him if he needed a drink. He said that he was so thirsty. I figured so. He was always thirsty. I often brought him grape Gatorade, his favorite. With a lot of ice cubes. And a little bendy straw.
He had his oxygen, he had his drink. Next we found a show on tv to keep us a little entertained while we waited for the nurse. Something lighthearted maybe. Something to laugh over. Fresh Prince ended up being the pick. At first he was too hot, so I turned on the fan, and with a stack of papers I fanned him, so that he could have a direct breeze. Then he started to seem cold. "Do you need a blanket, dad?" I asked him.
"Oh don’t worry hun. I don’t want to trouble you."
"Dad, it’s no trouble. Here, let’s use this one"
He was always doing that. Not wanting to trouble us. But it was no trouble. Eventually he dosed off. He came and went in tiny naps, a few minutes each. I sat by him and watched him intently. Sometimes little beads of sweat would dance down his forehead, so I would carefully and softly dab his face with a dry washcloth.
When he was awake I had asked him, "how are you feeling dad?"
And he answered me, "Anxious. Very very anxious" in a tone that made me believe him instantly. I don’t know if you can imagine what its like to be a cancer patient and have your pain pump broken. It’s very scary. You depend on that little piece of machine. It keeps you steady, or at least as steady as you can be. It keeps you in what little comfort you have.
As he turned to me, I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes. I didn’t want to let him see me sad. I wanted to be strong for him. He asked me to read his bible to him, he had special verses picked out that he liked. So I did. I read until he was asleep again, and then I read some more, and then I read to him some more. And as he slept and dreamt I held his hand, in hopes that even in his dreams he would know I loved him more than I could ever say.
It took the nurse so long to come. Hours and hours and hours. We all sat quiet and tried our hardest to be thankful that he was still with us. But it was a hard thing for which to be thankful. You could hear it in his breathing, every inhale and exhale, the tumors consuming his lungs, violating every bit of justice I had ever thought I knew. You could see the pain in his face, even when he slept. I wished so bad that he didn’t have to go through this. I didn’t understand why it had to be. Of everything I wondered, wanted, or hoped, I wanted to take it away for him. I ran from the living room to the other side of the house, hiding my face in my hands, hiding my tears in the dark.
I couldn’t take away my dad’s physical pain or stop the cancer. Not even the doctors could do that. And not even God wanted to. But I did something no doctor could do. I stayed by my dad’s side and cared for him and helped him in every way that I could. I made him feel a little less alone, a little less scared, a lot more loved. His very last breath was taken in my arms. As a caretaker, you can’t always help people’s bodies feel better. But you can always help their heart.
When someone has a cold, I make them soup and read them stories. When they have the flu I brew their tea and toast their bread. It’s almost instinctual for me to care for someone when they are sick or hurting. The greatest thing I ever did for my dad was to stick by his side and care for him when he needed me the most.
I remember the night painfully clearly. It was springtime, a time that was suppose to be happy. I was suppose to be thinking about the blooming of the flowers, the greening of the grass, the freshness in the air that warned us summer was soon coming. But all I could think about was the diagnosis they had given him 8 months earlier. "His cancer is in the fourth stage, there is no stage five." I thought to myself, "What? Not my dad! He is only 44! Not my dad." But still the specialists and the staff told us, "We give him between 2-6 months. Please prepare yourself for this time." He was hurting a lot. "We’ll do our best to make him comfortable," they said. It was all we could do.
Fluorescent hospital lights. Pills and liquids that were suppose to ease his pain. "One last Holiday"s. Fitting in the words "I love you" as many times as I could in a day. Wondering if this was the last night I would have a father. This is what was on my mind that spring night. I was laying on my grandma’s couch. We were staying there because my dad was more comfortable and we could care for him better there. He was sleeping in the guest room behind me. I had just closed my eyes it seems, had just let lose of the anxiety enough to sleep for a little bit, when I heard an intrusive "BEEP BEEP BEEP" coming from my dad’s room. I knew that sound. It was his pain pump, something was wrong with it. Usually it was easy to fix, such as an IV being pinched. But this time something bigger wrong. They couldn’t seem to fix it. I laid there on the couch, listening to my stepmom and my dad call the on call nurse. This was going to be an all night ordeal, I just knew it.
I walked my dad out to the living room and helped him sit in the rocking chair. By now the cancer had attacked his body so cruelly that he could not even walk by himself. But I didn’t mind. I put one hand behind his back, to help his balance, and took slow steady paces with him until we reached our destination. Once he was comfortable I quickly went back to the guest room to get his oxygen tank, which was a very heavy thing, a burden which you had to lug across the room and plug back in every morning and night. It was heavier than I would have liked, but I didn’t mind. He needed it, so I would bring it to him.
Once he got his oxygen back, I asked him if he needed a drink. He said that he was so thirsty. I figured so. He was always thirsty. I often brought him grape Gatorade, his favorite. With a lot of ice cubes. And a little bendy straw.
He had his oxygen, he had his drink. Next we found a show on tv to keep us a little entertained while we waited for the nurse. Something lighthearted maybe. Something to laugh over. Fresh Prince ended up being the pick. At first he was too hot, so I turned on the fan, and with a stack of papers I fanned him, so that he could have a direct breeze. Then he started to seem cold. "Do you need a blanket, dad?" I asked him.
"Oh don’t worry hun. I don’t want to trouble you."
"Dad, it’s no trouble. Here, let’s use this one"
He was always doing that. Not wanting to trouble us. But it was no trouble. Eventually he dosed off. He came and went in tiny naps, a few minutes each. I sat by him and watched him intently. Sometimes little beads of sweat would dance down his forehead, so I would carefully and softly dab his face with a dry washcloth.
When he was awake I had asked him, "how are you feeling dad?"
And he answered me, "Anxious. Very very anxious" in a tone that made me believe him instantly. I don’t know if you can imagine what its like to be a cancer patient and have your pain pump broken. It’s very scary. You depend on that little piece of machine. It keeps you steady, or at least as steady as you can be. It keeps you in what little comfort you have.
As he turned to me, I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes. I didn’t want to let him see me sad. I wanted to be strong for him. He asked me to read his bible to him, he had special verses picked out that he liked. So I did. I read until he was asleep again, and then I read some more, and then I read to him some more. And as he slept and dreamt I held his hand, in hopes that even in his dreams he would know I loved him more than I could ever say.
It took the nurse so long to come. Hours and hours and hours. We all sat quiet and tried our hardest to be thankful that he was still with us. But it was a hard thing for which to be thankful. You could hear it in his breathing, every inhale and exhale, the tumors consuming his lungs, violating every bit of justice I had ever thought I knew. You could see the pain in his face, even when he slept. I wished so bad that he didn’t have to go through this. I didn’t understand why it had to be. Of everything I wondered, wanted, or hoped, I wanted to take it away for him. I ran from the living room to the other side of the house, hiding my face in my hands, hiding my tears in the dark.
I couldn’t take away my dad’s physical pain or stop the cancer. Not even the doctors could do that. And not even God wanted to. But I did something no doctor could do. I stayed by my dad’s side and cared for him and helped him in every way that I could. I made him feel a little less alone, a little less scared, a lot more loved. His very last breath was taken in my arms. As a caretaker, you can’t always help people’s bodies feel better. But you can always help their heart.