Composition II Tues., Thurs. 9:40
Everything Can Change
All through my years as a student, I have never enjoyed writing. I could talk all day long, but when it came down to putting it on paper, I would always get stuck. I think it was because we were always getting graded on it and that took all the fun away, which repelled me from doing it in my free time. I never imagined that one day I would pick up and pen and piece of paper and do it daily for 4 years, but sometimes in life, well, life occurs and the unthinkable happen.
Throughout my lifetime, my mother and I have always shared a close bond. During my adolescent years, we generally spent an excessive amount of time together. She took me to school every morning and picked me up every afternoon, always eager to learn about the events of my day. Every Saturday, we would get up early and spend the day in Little Rock. We go shopping, out to eat, and sometimes even a moive. We liked to refer to it as “Girls Day”. She has always been as perfect as a mother could be, and I could talk to her about anything from sex and drugs to religion and politics; this woman was my rock. When I turned 18, I moved out and decided to attempt to take the world on my own. Regardless of location, which was just down
Murphy 2 the road, we continued to remain close. It was on one rainy September night things were about to change forever.
It was Friday night, and I was at home with my then fiancé. It had been raining all day, so we decided to spend the evening at home. We were just about to call it a night when my phone rang. It was my dad. “Momma’s having a stroke and is in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.” I was speechless. I rushed to gather my things as I heard the sirens pass. We finally made it to the hospital, where I felt helpless. They wouldn’t let me back there with her and wouldn’t give me any information. I didn’t know what to do.
Finally, the doctor came out. It wasn’t good news. “Your mother has suffered from a massive stroke” he said. “We have her stabilized, but odds are that she will be a vegetable”. I felt like vomiting. I was completely lost. My dad tried to talk to me, but he was siding with doctor, saying that “I should accept it; the doctor knows what he is talking about.” I could not handle that negativity. “You have to have faith.” I said. My dad responded with “Faith doesn’t fix people, medicine and technology does”. “You just don’t care!” I yelled. When anything tragic like this had occurred before, I always had my mom there to comfort me and talk me through it. I felt so alone. I went outside to smoke a cigarette, and seen a spiral notebook in the backseat of my car. I picked it up and started writing my mom. I told her what was going on what everyone was saying. I told her that I knew that she was going to pull through and that this wasn’t where she was supposed to get off of this ride we call life. I cried and I wrote for at least an hour.
As I stated before, I’ve never enjoyed writing, at least until that night. The sense of relief that I felt from writing that letter started something that I never thought would happen. I began
Murphy 3 writing daily. Each night I wrote a letter to my mom about what was going on. This continued for months. Eventually, I was writing her about my