One of the Hardest Experiences

The tall hospital building looms in front of me, a shadow of my past. I take a long gulp of fresh air, trying to swallow the bitter tears of death. I begin to take a small step toward the clear, sliding glass doors, while my deep fears surround me. As I walk through the doors to visit my aunt, I remember that fateful day a long time ago. The classroom was decorated with colorful works of art and cluttered with schoolbooks. I sat in my eighth grade homeroom counting the minutes until school was let out. It was 2:30, January 9th, the second day back from Christmas break, and I was already bored. The teacher’s monotone voice seemed worse somehow, and I couldn’t quite concentrate. My thoughts drifted to my dad and a deep sadness came over me. He had lung cancer for four years, and for four years I had to watch him suffer. All of a sudden the classroom door swung open and my mom walked in, a welcoming sight until I saw her face. The moment our eyes met I knew that today would change my life forever. I gathered up my belongings as fast as I could and walked quickly out the door. We jumped into our '76 Station wagon and sped to the hospital. Through the window, I stared at the bare trees and bright cars as they flashed before my eyes. It seemed like a lifetime before we pulled up into the hospital parking lot. Uncertainty flashed through my mind as I followed my mom into the hospital. I listened to the quiet tap of my shoes in the deserted hallway as I walked with my mom to my father’s room. As I proceeded through the door, I surveyed even the smallest detail; the dull blue curtains, the faint smell of pee, and the consistent beeping of the medical equipment. I was a zombie; in a daze; as if in an episode of the Twilight Zone. This could not be happening, I said to myself. I heard nothing; I saw nothing except for the man in front of me. He lay on the bed, immobile, staring at a land far away. His hair was falling out in clumps due to the Chemotherapy treatment. His face was yellow and his eyes held a slightly glassy look. The quite sobs overwhelmed my body as the tears rolled down my face. That’s not my father; my dad was fine the last time I saw him, I thought. “Go ahead and talk to him,” my mother told me so I sat down beside him and told him about my day. Later, I stepped out of the room and took a deep breath. Emotionally drained, I walked down the hall to the waiting room where the rest of the family was sitting. As I sat down and stared at the blurred television screen, I pleaded for God not to let me see him die. The air in the room was suffocating, and I decided to go outside to the courtyard. The flowers and trees were a beautiful sight to see, and I wondered if my dad would ever see these things again. To bury the pain and emptiness I was feeling, I began talking to someone. All of sudden, I stopped mid-sentence and had the urge to look up to the third floor. Then and there I knew something had happened. I ran to the elevator and met my sister on the third floor. Her red, tear stained face looked at me, and I assumed the worst. “What happened, what’s wrong,” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Dad just died,” she sputtered. We met my mom at the door and I started crying. The hollow space in my heart grew unbearably large as I walked slowly away to be by myself. When I came back, I was allowed to see my father for the last time. I sat down on the chair near his bed and held his still warm hand. I looked into his pale face and choked, “Dad, it’s going to be awfully hard without you, but I promise I will make you proud…” Twenty years and more struggles than one person could ever imagine going through, I can finally say that I’m sure my dad is proud of me. I know he is proud of me not because of my successes in this life but how I have helped others through their own struggles. I know one day, I’ll be able to hear him say it.