Tuesday, November 8, 2011
“A Little Rain Must Fall”
This is my poem in celebration of learning the true definition of love.
And that a little rain must fall.
And all the pain it took to finally understand.
This poem is for my mother,
Who works during the summer to be able to give us the extras.
Whose passion is to educate those who have needs that most of us cannot understand.
And when the rain came, she put up her umbrella and cried.
This poem is for my brothers,
Who are also learning the definition of love the hard way,
being soaked by every rain storm that passes through,
And when the rain came, they looked up to the sky and tried to understand.
This poem is for my father,
Who was hit by a distracted driver on his way to work,
to make money for his three children.
Whose life was turned upside down in that single moment.
Who has been viewed as expendable.
Who survived a risky brain surgery.
Who still struggles with pain, and guilt every day.
And when the rain came, he put up his umbrella and stomped through it.
This is for Jeri Anderson,
Who played with her grandchildren as if she was still a child herself.
Who was diagnosed with brain and lung cancer.
Who died before she could see her five grandchildren grow up.
Whose passion for life courses through my veins.
And when the rain came, she put up her umbrella and laughed at it.
This poem is against working too hard, brain tumors and missing grandmothers.
This is a poem to say that “life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain”.
I lived with pain,
but I always had the necessities
and maybe some luxuries,
but most importantly, I had love.
And when the rain came, I danced while I cried with the sky.
Understand, I know exactly what I got
a family, love
and a knowledge of true pain.
And a chance to learn the definition of love through all of the rain storms.
I will not let my pain drown me,
I will not take love for granted.
And I intend to dance in the rain, every chance I get.
Hell
During my senior year of high school, my father was diagnosed with acromegaly, a form of brain tumor effecting the human growth hormone levels in the blood. Untreated, a person could keep growing at rate you would expect from young children, not adults. And eventually, a person could die. After all that we went through, I'm seriously surprised I finished and got my diploma. I don't know how I did it and I don't think I could do it again. His brain surgery was a success and I went on to college. The first semester of my Freshman year, I wrote this for an English course. It was the first time I dealt with all of the emotions I had stored inside.
The siren of an alarm goes off at 9:00 a.m. I can see the passing beauty of a snowflake outside of my window on this cold January morning. Another day of sluggishly dragging out of my bed. For the last three months, the night just never seems long enough; I feel like I haven’t slept since he was diagnosed. But unlike the past 90 days, today just seems harder. The steaming shower stings my skin, but the pain seems irrelevant. I spend ten minutes starring into the closet, when finally my favorite sweatshirt calls my name. Pulling it on I notice the few small holes of wear starting to show the strong fabric. I am at my breaking point, I haven’t worn anything but sweats since the doctor said that surgery was the only other option. I flop on my bed exhausted. I decide that I look good enough for what I’m about to deal with.
I arrive at the hospital and the big blue Franklin Medical Center sign sends a wave of nausea through me. I check in at the security kiosk. When the squeaky “Neurosurgery floor, please,” escapes my lips, I shudder.
“What?” the security guard asks in a voice that seems too loud in my empty head. I feel it cut through my throat as I say it a second time.
The elevator ride seems unreasonably short, I haven’t had enough time to prepare myself. The waiting room is cold and smells like disinfectant, with generic paintings that are meant to calm, but they seem to have the reverse effect on my little family sitting at the table. The surgery started two hours ago and my mother, grandmother, and uncle start to get antsy, shifting in their seats and constantly getting up to scan the patient monitor
“Why is it taking so long? It should be over by now. Is there something wrong?” My once constantly self-assuring, mother says, now she is just a shadow of what she used to be. Questioning, quiet, hollow.
“It will all be ok. He’ll walk out of here and get to feeling better soon.” Grandma Phyllis says, playing with the hoop earrings my father bought for her birthday, seven months, and a lifetime ago.
In October, my father was diagnosed with acromegaly, a form of brain tumor effecting the human growth hormone levels in the blood. Untreated, a person could keep growing at rate you would expect from young children, not adults. And eventually, a person could die.
My uncle and I stay silent, both scared out of our minds. My mother is right, it is taking too long. We frantically check the out-of-surgery screen waiting for the magic number 25982 to show up along those who had made it through the risky art of surgery. Finally, three and a half hours after he first went in, his number appears on the screen, my hands stop shaking and the knot in my stomach loosens up. The tall, thin, transparently tired Dr. Colapinto walks to our table, it seems like hours until he finally reaches my tense family. He then explains that the reason for our long bated-breath wait was all because my father’s thick skull broke the machine they used to drill into his brain cavity.
“Well, we always knew that he was thick-headed.” My uncle states followed by a strained laugh from all of us.
Dr. Colapinto tells us that the hard part is over, and we should relax and go get some lunch because it be at least another treacherous half hour before we can get a glimpse as to what is left of my father.
The time has finally come for us to see him; the knot in the pit of my stomach clenches up with more force than before. I’m scared to see the tall six foot two inch, strong father laying in a bed, torn down by a tumor the size of a pencil eraser. On the elevator ride up to the ICU floor, my hands start to shake with a force that can only can be compared to an earthquake. Walking into the round quiet bay of the ICU, I pass by a room and see a man so sick that the bed shakes to keep him from getting pneumonia. “There is no way my father can look as bad as this poor man.” I think as I try not to stare into his room. Three doors down on the large white board I see the name I’ve been searching desperately for: STICKA, R. I sigh and my knot loosens again. The only thing I can hear is the slow wheezing of the respirator and the beeping heart monitor with a rhythm that calms me more. I follow my mother into the room, afraid to be first to see my broken father.
I peek around the edge of the door and the sight is like a kick in the stomach. There was my father, broken and vacant with a tube coming out of with his mouth. Tubes are snaking their way out in all different directions from under the blanket. My mother and I walk up and hold his hands, a tear streams down her cheek, followed by three more. Just then the nurse walks in and my mother hurriedly wipes away the tears. She checks his vitals and removes the tube from his throat. I try to choke back the tears. My mother asks if he is in pain, he can only respond in two slow moans. After an hour, I don’t think I can sit here and look at him anymore. I get to the car and the tears come, unrelenting and painful but I can feel the boulder tumble off my back and the knot in my stomach gives up and my hands stop shaking. Our battle is over.
The siren of an alarm goes off at 9:00 a.m. I can see the passing beauty of a snowflake outside of my window on this cold January morning. Another day of sluggishly dragging out of my bed. For the last three months, the night just never seems long enough; I feel like I haven’t slept since he was diagnosed. But unlike the past 90 days, today just seems harder. The steaming shower stings my skin, but the pain seems irrelevant. I spend ten minutes starring into the closet, when finally my favorite sweatshirt calls my name. Pulling it on I notice the few small holes of wear starting to show the strong fabric. I am at my breaking point, I haven’t worn anything but sweats since the doctor said that surgery was the only other option. I flop on my bed exhausted. I decide that I look good enough for what I’m about to deal with.
I arrive at the hospital and the big blue Franklin Medical Center sign sends a wave of nausea through me. I check in at the security kiosk. When the squeaky “Neurosurgery floor, please,” escapes my lips, I shudder.
“What?” the security guard asks in a voice that seems too loud in my empty head. I feel it cut through my throat as I say it a second time.
The elevator ride seems unreasonably short, I haven’t had enough time to prepare myself. The waiting room is cold and smells like disinfectant, with generic paintings that are meant to calm, but they seem to have the reverse effect on my little family sitting at the table. The surgery started two hours ago and my mother, grandmother, and uncle start to get antsy, shifting in their seats and constantly getting up to scan the patient monitor
“Why is it taking so long? It should be over by now. Is there something wrong?” My once constantly self-assuring, mother says, now she is just a shadow of what she used to be. Questioning, quiet, hollow.
“It will all be ok. He’ll walk out of here and get to feeling better soon.” Grandma Phyllis says, playing with the hoop earrings my father bought for her birthday, seven months, and a lifetime ago.
In October, my father was diagnosed with acromegaly, a form of brain tumor effecting the human growth hormone levels in the blood. Untreated, a person could keep growing at rate you would expect from young children, not adults. And eventually, a person could die.
My uncle and I stay silent, both scared out of our minds. My mother is right, it is taking too long. We frantically check the out-of-surgery screen waiting for the magic number 25982 to show up along those who had made it through the risky art of surgery. Finally, three and a half hours after he first went in, his number appears on the screen, my hands stop shaking and the knot in my stomach loosens up. The tall, thin, transparently tired Dr. Colapinto walks to our table, it seems like hours until he finally reaches my tense family. He then explains that the reason for our long bated-breath wait was all because my father’s thick skull broke the machine they used to drill into his brain cavity.
“Well, we always knew that he was thick-headed.” My uncle states followed by a strained laugh from all of us.
Dr. Colapinto tells us that the hard part is over, and we should relax and go get some lunch because it be at least another treacherous half hour before we can get a glimpse as to what is left of my father.
The time has finally come for us to see him; the knot in the pit of my stomach clenches up with more force than before. I’m scared to see the tall six foot two inch, strong father laying in a bed, torn down by a tumor the size of a pencil eraser. On the elevator ride up to the ICU floor, my hands start to shake with a force that can only can be compared to an earthquake. Walking into the round quiet bay of the ICU, I pass by a room and see a man so sick that the bed shakes to keep him from getting pneumonia. “There is no way my father can look as bad as this poor man.” I think as I try not to stare into his room. Three doors down on the large white board I see the name I’ve been searching desperately for: STICKA, R. I sigh and my knot loosens again. The only thing I can hear is the slow wheezing of the respirator and the beeping heart monitor with a rhythm that calms me more. I follow my mother into the room, afraid to be first to see my broken father.
I peek around the edge of the door and the sight is like a kick in the stomach. There was my father, broken and vacant with a tube coming out of with his mouth. Tubes are snaking their way out in all different directions from under the blanket. My mother and I walk up and hold his hands, a tear streams down her cheek, followed by three more. Just then the nurse walks in and my mother hurriedly wipes away the tears. She checks his vitals and removes the tube from his throat. I try to choke back the tears. My mother asks if he is in pain, he can only respond in two slow moans. After an hour, I don’t think I can sit here and look at him anymore. I get to the car and the tears come, unrelenting and painful but I can feel the boulder tumble off my back and the knot in my stomach gives up and my hands stop shaking. Our battle is over.
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