My Experience In My Life

When I was younger, I always found myself with a pencil and paper in my hand. I would leave a multitude of marks on the paper in some form or fashion, whether it be scribbles, repetitive words and sentences, my name, or the names of family members. Growing older, I would find myself writing more than enough when it came to essays. I could never bring myself to leave out any details and I rarely used simple sentences. Originally, I thought it was because I wanted the validation of my parents and teachers, but it was something else I had yet to realize. I liked writing and it hit me one day when I was in my room, listening to music.

Despite how average my life has been thus far, especially compared to others, I have learned so much. Whether I was faced with minor complications or major decisions, I had much knowledge to gain. Regardless of the outcome of my actions, I simply reflected on what I had to learn and carried on. Because, regardless of whether I like it or not, time will continue forward, even if I’m not. If not my age, then it’s my experiences that define who I’ve grown to become.

As I'm writing this, we have just returned from a 5 day hospital stay. Life has become a series of doctors' appointments, tests, and hospital stays. This is life with a chronic illness. . . especially one of which not much is known. But life wasn't always this way.

This was it. Everything I had ever done had led up to this weekend, to this moment. All the hard work, all the supporting roles, all the learning from people older than me. I was finally ready to have my chance to be in the light. I remember pacing back and forth with smell of fresh paint in my nose, the stage having been painted the day before. My hands were shaking. I kept checking my arms to make sure I had not sweat through my costume. I kept running the opening monologue in my head, hoping and praying I did not forget anything. Then the time came. The lights had gone out and I could still hear the murmur of people talking as I stepped out on stage.

Unfortunately, it started Tuesday, May 10th, 2011, usually I go by my parent’s house before work and have coffee and donuts with my mother while we chit-chat about current events about our lives, but, I was running late for work that day.  Afterward, at 10:45 a.m. I started calling my mother’s cell phone but she never answered. At noon, my phone rang and I assumed it was her, but, it was my father. The minute I answered the phone I knew something was wrong. He uttered, “your mother and sister had an accident and the police officer said we must arrive at the hospital right away.” I could feel my gut at that very moment, my life just fell apart. I abandoned work and met up with my father at his house and we rode together, soon after we arrived a Florida Highway Patrol called us inside a small room and asked if we could identify the driver license. Regrettably, it was my mother, I could feel the tears flowing down my cheeks forming streams, my breathing was rapid and the walls were closing. The officer then stood up and gave us his sincere apologies. He indicated that my mother was pronounced dead at arrival and that my sister was inside the trauma part inside the hospital that the doctors were working with her now. I began screaming no and felt my father wrap his arms around my shoulders. Nonetheless, he did his best staying calm and strong for us. Next, we asked if we could visit my sister, but, he said he would ask the doctor and left the room. However, moments went by, I

“Experience is how life catches up with us and teaches us to love and forgive each other”, Judy Collins. I used to look at my life as a series of misfortunate events. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized my life, my experiences, made me who I am. This realization changed who I was and who I wanted to be. In The Last Lecture, Randy Pausch wrote, “It’s not about the cards you’re dealt, but how you play the hand.” I was so focused on the cards in my hand, that I couldn’t even play.

As time passed, it seemed to fly faster and faster. Soon, it was the summer between my sophomore and junior years and I had an abundance of plans for how to spend my summer. One event stood out compared to all of the others. It would greatly influence my life and shape my thoughts to the way they are today. Reminiscing about the events of my past, my journey to the glamorous mountains of Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico to hike for a week is indisputably the greatest memory of my life so far.

On the night of April 7, 1997, my seven-year-old body flew from the backseat of a Nissan Sentra and crashed through the front passenger window onto the roadway of Old Town, Staten Island. I woke up on a hospital stretcher in pain and perplexed. My eyes were filled with shattered glass. I had no mobility in either of my arms; my right arm was wrapped in gauze and plaster; and my left arm had an IV in it. Two days later I was informed of the full extent of my injuries. I shouted at my nurse, “But how will I eat, write, shower, and how will I use the bathroom? What about my hair? How will I put on my clothes?

The wind serrated past my body. I hesitated, reminiscing all the memories we treasured years ago. Sitting down on a nearby bench, looking at the emptied bus stop. I ran my fingers through the leathery pages of my small book that my father had given me. How long it has been? Five… six years? The clouds suddenly swirled and closed the sky, the thunder roared. Girls of all ages and appearances rushed through the streets as they had just finished school. I smiled mirthlessly.

“Poke the porcupine! Poke, poke poke,” yelled my brother, Matt, as he jabbed his fingers into my ribcage. This game made the three hour car ride to Maine feel like eternity as the middle seat had my name engraved upon it (one of the perks of being the youngest child). My sister stared at the alluring landscape as we drove down the street, welcoming my family to Nana’s house. Pulling into the driveway, I am greeted by Nana, Papa, and Uncle Dave. My siblings and I immediately explored the backyard like adventurers in a new habitat. I traveled down a scenic path, welcoming me to the salty Atlantic. I paddled as hard as I can to keep up with my Nana and Papa kayaking. My whole family then took a hike, screaming every time we saw an apple tree. As we returned to the house, I washed my grass stained shirt and checked my body for ticks as I smelt savory lobster cooking. Crunching on corn and devouring my butter soaked lobster, I looked up at the table and saw a happy family: laughing about our hiking adventures and enjoying time together. As a first grader, I was thrilled to practice my reading skills to my Nana as she corrected my mispronunciations. Maine was a sweet escape, and I never wanted to leave. The only worries in my mind were the grass stains on my shirt, and removing the tick cemented in my leg.

I remember my parents calling me up an hour before midnight telling me that they would be coming home late from work. That was how I grew up my entire life until I entered high school. As an immigrant family, my parents had to run the extra mile to provide for our family. I was the oldest of my family. Therefore, I had to step up as the mother figure and to take care of my younger brother. Sometimes, my friends would ask me to hang out with them or to come over my house. My answer was no most of the time. I had a younger brother in the house who needed my help with his homework. He couldn’t feed himself so I had to feed him. I remember putting him to sleep one night and just asking myself why I had to do this. I wanted to hang out with my friends and act like a child that I was. I was an eleven-year-old who had to grow up because of the circumstances. And I did not like that. As time passed by, my parents were settling in to this new surrounding and they began to take some of their time off from work to spend time with me and my brother. Even then, there were times where I had to take care of my brother because he couldn’t be home alone.

Blood poured out onto the shower floor, mixing with the water to spiral down the drain. I stared at the large amounts of blood, shocked to realize it was streaming out of ME. It was not long before I screamed for my parents. The definition of “death-defying” experience varies depending on the person and the situation. To this day, I have yet to live through an actual one, however, for a few minutes when I was seven years old, I thought death could be right around the corner. This experience changed my personal worldview. I saw the world more carefully from then on out, specifically the soap dish in showers. I also felt mentally and physically tougher, having survived what I perceived to be a “near death” experience. In the same token, however, I became prideful and jealous. No matter the actual severity of the event, a perceived “near death” experience will make an imprint on your mind and will change you as a person.

The summer after freshman year, I went on a journey that completely changed my life forever and opened a whole new door to my life. My four weeks in Grenada, Nicaragua, put me in situations that not many freshmen get to experience at home. During this experience, I was able to do lots of community service, visit students at their school, play games with kids, and of course, study Spanish.

I was 16 when it happened. It was a surprisingly warm December day in 1994 in Bangladesh. It was already past dinnertime. My dad ran a little bit late from work, since so many people were out enjoying the nice weather. My dad owned a tailoring shop downtown, and it was always pretty busy, since most Bengali stores at the time didn’t sell stitched clothes. My mom and my three siblings went ahead and ate, but I waited for Dad to come home. We always ate dinner together, no matter how late he came back. When he finally came back, it was almost 9:00, so we decided that we were going to eat dinner while watching TV. We watched Looney Toons together. I asked him if he had any wacky customers at the shop. He jokingly tried to convince me to switch from pursuing biology to English. It was running gag between us. Anyone who knew me knew I sucked at English. After he finished eating, he got up to take his plate to the kitchen. I was finishing up my food when I heard a crash come from the kitchen. I ran to the kitchen and I saw my dad collapsed on the floor. I yelled for my mom. We quickly rushed him to the hospital. The quickest way to the hospital was by rickshaw. My mom, my brother, and I kept yelling at the rider to go faster. We finally got to the hospital only to realize that he was gone. He had died of an ischemic stroke on the way there.

One hour later, and my life became changed forever. My loving and caring family I bonded with would no longer be the same. The long walks with my mom in the evening would soon become a distant memory. Decorating for the holidays was just around the corner and I would have to hang up the stocking on the chimney without her. The sweet, rich, chocolate brownies she made every Friday night would leave my taste buds empty. Her hugs that made me feel loved when I was sad would now be a thought in my head, and our long talks about growing up and finding my way would be cut short.