Inspiration

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My Inspiration


For practically seventeen years of my life, my mother has been there to support me, give me advice, and to tell me what was the best thing for me to do and what was not. Looking back on all the memories, I remember my first day in nursery school. I did not know a single English word so my mother decided to enroll me a year early to catch up with the other children. Since she also was not acquainted with the English language, she began to take some night classes. So on top of a full-time job, house work, and taking care of the family; she took up two ESL night classes in attempt to help me with my English.


In the 1st grade, I saw my fellow classmates riding their bikes after school. Even though I could ride a bike, I still had those childish training wheels on. In admiration, I went home one day and asked my mother to take the training wheels off. I fell off my bike and scraped my bony knee on the jagged sidewalk in a struggle to stay on the bike, yet my mother was patient enough to convince me not to give up.


The first day of high school, I was terribly petrified. “High school is the stage leading into adulthood”, my mother would say. Sadly, I wanted my mother to go with me to high school like the old days in kindergarten and middle school. I was absolutely sure that I did not want to grow up and drift away from my mother. Yet again, she came to my rescue with advice that I could never forget. “You know, you will not drift away from me, unless you let it happen. As much as I do not want you to grow up; it is part of life. You need to go to high school and get a great education. Then you can support me when I become old and wrinkly.” But not until my sophomore year in high school when I came down with an illness that I realized my mother was my inspiration, my life line.


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Laying in bed on a cold January, a rush of chills shot through all parts of my body. My stomach started to hurt like a war was about to begin. Soon it felt like the Revolutionary War was starting all over again in my stomach. I could not take it anymore, so I called my mother. That night she took me to the hospital, and they ran some tests. The doctor came in my room after my check up and told me the result. He was a very tall man, with a bald head. The doctor’s bald head looked like you were able to rub it and a magical genie would appeared. He spoke to me with a tranquil yet, powerful tone. “Your stomach has been processing some kind of bacteria and for some reason your immune system is unable to prevent it from developing.” What he said kept repeating over and over in my head like an unpleasant song that I could not get out of my head. “I need you to stay here for a couple of nights so we can determine what we have to do to help you.” All I wanted to do was go home; I did not want to stay in this dreary morgue.


Early morning, the doctor walked in with his clipboard on one hand and the other hand in his white overcoat pocket. “What we concluded last night was that we need to pump your stomach to get the bacteria out of you. It is a very easy process; yet, it will make you feel exceptionally uncomfortable. If your mother could sign this paper, we will be able to do this procedure in about two hours.” Of course my mother signed it without hesitation.


Exactly two hours passed, a sudden fright came over me. A nurse came in, and took me downstairs. It felt like I had just died and it was my time to go to another realm. I could feel the scorching heat from a fire that does not even exist. As I entered the room, I saw nothing but a bed and a machine connected to a long tube. I knew at that moment that the tube was going in my mouth, down my throat, and into my stomach. My mom was there holding my hand the entire time. Right when the tube hit my mouth and went down my throat, I felt as though I wanted to regurgitate everything I had eaten. I then saw a vivid, white light. I thought I had died, but it turned out that I had fainted and the doctor was shining a light in my eye. I turned to my mother, and it was the first time I saw my mother cry.


Back in my hospital room, my mother was telling me how much she loved me, and she would do anything to make me happy. From the time I started nursery school, to the moment I embarked on the theory that maybe cooties were not a bad thing to have after all; never before had I heard her say those three little words. It was the first time I had ever heard her say that she loved me. Even though she did not have to tell me she did, those three little words made me believe that everything was going to be fine. Just her one simple statement from that day, gave me the courage to surpass all obstacles in my life.





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