January 25, 2015
Memoir rough draft
Happy Birthday, Dad We all have that one moment in our lives that we will never forget. Whether it’s at a young age, or a recent point in our lives. As for me, April 15 was the day, the day of my third grade year, which would be the most epic of all. It led to months of needing others’ help, whether or not I wanted it. This day would consist of a stuffed animal dog look alike, the one call that made my dad clock out of work early, and great-looking doctors, and kind nurses, and a large amount of pain It was a warm sunny day, the birds singing and the squirrels squealing. There was a light breeze that made leaves on the trees dance, playing the tone most everyone enjoys. As my sister and I zoomed from one side of my aunt’s block to the other over and over again. I began to feel exhausted. As I tried to catch my breath with the bit of air I could grasp. I said to her “let’s take a break and get some water.” She insisted on one more round. As I struggled to catch up with her my pounding heart felt as if was to rip out my chest. I saw her jump over what seemed to be a snowflake-colored dog, leash-less, and the owner nowhere to be seen. By the time I realized it was at my reach. I didn’t have much time to jump over, and I failed to lift my right leg and began to tumble down. As I reached the concrete sidewalk with my hands, my sight quickly seemed to turn white. I felt light-headed and unable to stand.
Then when I returned to consciousness, I heard an unfamiliar voice that projected from an older citizen: “Oh goodness, darling are you okay?” I explained I just needed a minute to come to my senses. My sister then helped me up and walked me toward my aunt’s house. I assume my mom heard me weeping in pain as the door closed behind us. I tried not make a scene or to be loud, as I thought my mom would be angry at me. Surprisingly, all that happened was that I had to answer a whole survey of questions: “How are you feeling? Is there much pain? How would you rate the pain? Can you move your hands?” Then that’s when it hit me I couldn’t move them! I began to cry because I knew at that moment that I had to go to the hospital.
Then, this was the point where pain didn’t matter, because I had to come up with numerous answers for my next questioner, for my dad who would interrogate me with, “Why didn’t you pay attention to what you were doing? Were your shoes untied like always? Did you have sandals or running shoes?” As he interrogated me, we headed to the hospital. With my mom in the passenger seat she asked me to move my hands in a circular motion to see if I had broken my hands or just dislocated a bone. Whichever one it was, the pain was unbearable. As we pulled up to the ER parking lot, tears began to shoot out of my eyes like water falls as I explained how sorry I was. “Just relax, everything is going to be okay.” my mom said in her soothing mother voice. We sat in the waiting room for what seemed to be hours. Then my name was finally called. We walked into a small room that smelled of latex, but then again, that’s how all hospitals smell. A nurse took my blood pressure and temperature and then walked us to a room where we would wait for a doctor. We waited and waited, and finally he arrived. I can’t recall his name, but he was a handsome man, close to 6 foot 3, light brown hair that was in an army style cut, with a body that seemed well taken care of, and his skin tone was a beautiful beige tan. I could tell my mom was examining him too. As he explained that it was only a fracture in “both” wrists, but will heal with time. He also explained that I would have to be put under anesthesia so that he could put the bone back in the right place for the healing process. After that, he left to prepare the room.
Later, one of the nurses brought a bed for me and gave me a choice of two colors