I want to put it here, just in case I decide last minute to chicken out about actually turning it into class. I want to know my work actually went somewhere. So here is my Reflective essay. Be warned.. It may make you cry, It may not. It isn't a extremely happy story, but has an every going ending...So anyways without further adieu.
Reflective Essay:
The pink walls held normal eight year old things; posters, pictures, windows, and old school projects I was particularly proud of. The floor had toys scattered in different corners of the room. It held a bed, a closet, a dresser and a small nightstand. Clothes that are far too small now lined the closet and filled the dresser; a comforter that has been in storage for years now furnished the bed. In that bed, lied a girl with dirty blonde hair, blue eyes and innocence only someone of her age could hold. The morning of June 9th 2001 started as a morning just like any other, with an eight year old girl waking up from her slumber. Little did I know that even years later, I would still be able to remember that day like it was yesterday.
The sound of birds and the peeping sun through the blinds woke me up that morning. The alarm clock next to my Barbie comforter flashed a time between seven and eight in the morning. Yawning, I climbed out of bed. The air in the room didn’t feel right, but being as young as I was, pushed it to the back of my mind. Scampering out of the small cave I called my room, I quickly noticed that my gut feeling was right. There right in front of me, a strong man cried. Watching someone you love so much cry is hard, especially at the age where daddies are the strongest people you know. I didn’t know what to do. After standing there for a few moments, I tiptoed over to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Daddy? Are you okay?” my eight year old voice murmured. He didn’t respond right away. He looked up, his eyes filled to the brim with tears. Grabbing me in an embrace, he hugged me for a few moment, just holding me close.
“Tricia, would you please go wake up your sister?” were the words that finally came out of his mouth. I was shocked, usually I got in trouble for waking up my five year old sister, but I did as I was told. I walked into her equally as small room and looked around. Her pink walls were bare except for a few pictures that she had colored. On the ceiling was a Winnie the Pooh fan, complete with the honey pot as the light portion. The Barbie’s and toys she had been playing with before she had to go to bed the night before were still scattered around the room. I went to go wake her, trying not to make her upset in the process. After she finally woke up, Alicia and I went back out into the living room. He had stopped crying, trying not to scare Alicia.
He had us get dressed and then walked us out to his green Jimmy. He placed us both in the car and closed the doors. I watched from the window, still unsure of what was going on. My aunt Tracy, who lived across the street, came over to see my dad. Her eyes were full of tears. The adults hugged for a few moments then talked for a while. After what seemed like 20 minutes, my dad opened the car doors of the Jimmy.
“Girls, you guys are going to come over to my house okay?” my aunt Tracy told my sister and I. “What about my fishie?” my eight year old mind wondered. After I was assured he would be okay without me for a while, Alicia and I went and gave my dad a hug. TJ and Alex were waiting at their house for us when we got there. We ate breakfast and started to play with their toys. From their window you could see the street corner and my house. Inside my driveway was an ambulance. I wasn’t sure what was going on or why it could be in my driveway. No one I knew was hurt, or so I thought. Aunt Tracy quickly shut the blinds and focused our attention to somewhere else. She sat Alicia, TJ, Alex and I on the large couch and popped in a movie.
Around eleven o’clock there was a knock on the door. I peeked outside and on the porch stood the beautiful woman I call grandma. Her eyes looked the same as every other adult I had seen that morning; Red, puffy and with traces of tears. I ran and hugged her. She and my aunt Tracy went outside to talk for a little while. When they came back inside, Alicia and I were told to grab our things. Grandma was taking us out for the afternoon.
She drove and drove, for a little over a half hour we drove. Until we hit Sandy Pines, a place where my great grandma and grandpa live in the summer months. We got out of the car. Both Alicia and I looked around with eyes huge because it was always a treat to go out there. And that afternoon we were kept busy with activities. The mini golf course was up; we went to the beach, did some crafts with my great grandma and got candy from the local store. Before too long our day had been spent and it was time to go home. My dad met us at my grandparent’s house. He held us as we told him our daily adventure. Everyone seemed so bittersweet. My dad told us we were staying the night at his parents’ house, my other grandparents. On the way home Alicia and I asked about mommy. We wanted to tell her about our day.
“Mommy isn’t here anymore; Mommy went to sleep and never woke up.”
Neither Alicia nor I really knew what to take of this information. Inside I thought death was like hide and go seek, eventually when someone was done looking, my mom would come out and say “Boo! I scared you!” She never did.
The visitation and funeral weren’t something I really remember much of. I remember people feeling sorry for Alicia and me. I remember songs being played and a lot of people crying. It didn’t really settle in until all of the first few days passed by. Then I started to understand that she wouldn’t be back. I wouldn’t get to see her again. That’s when I started to join the red, the puffy and the tear streaked faces.
Years later I still think about this day, how it changed the rest of my life. I moved to Rockford my third grade year, had three teachers and had to get up at 6 am every morning so my dad could go to work. Fourth and fifth were pretty average, I was innocent and young. Three people shared one bedroom until the summer before my fifth grade year. I held on to my Barbie comforter even years after I was far too old to have it. I started high school. That’s when I finally learned the truth.
The story that brought me back to the eight year old girl I was. Two versions of the same girl; both very different yet very much the same. The ninth grade version was taller, bigger and my hair had turned from dirty blonde to an auburn brown, but the person inside was very much the same. I sat down with my dad one evening and I asked about my mom. I wanted to know how she had died. I wasn’t eight anymore, I deserved to know.
He explained about how she had been very ill, a depression I later found out that she had been carrying around since before I was born. Depression was uncommon and unheard of in 2001, no one really knew what anti-depressants could or would do.
One day when I was in second grade she had fallen down the stairs carrying my sister as she was trying to meet me off the bus. She had hurt her knee so bad that she needed to have surgery and pills to help with the pain. Her anti-depressants and her knee medication didn’t mix well.
No one knew that she had stopped taking her medication, no one other than her mom, who never thought to tell anyone. No one knew that if you didn’t take your pills that they would make you go crazy. Well, take it from someone who knows… they do.
After months of help from my mom’s foster mom, the same beautiful woman I called grandma and was there on the day my mother died, my friends and family, I finally got to a decent place with what happened. Now will I ever get over the fact that I lost my mother so young? I can guarantee I won’t. She wasn’t there to watch me graduate elementary school, get my first period, give me my first sex talk, watch me go to my first dances, fight with about clothes and she will never meet the man that I love. She will never get to help me plan my wedding or see me in my wedding dress. She will never hold my first child in her arms or get to spoil her grandchildren. In that sense I have always felt robbed. Will I continue living day by day trying to make her and her foster mom, my grandma, who decided to join her in heaven this past February, proud? The answer will always be yes.
Life isn’t always about who is living on this earth, it’s who and what a person lives for that makes a difference. I live everyday knowing that tomorrow I could lose someone that I love with all my heart. I don’t live life cautiously. No one is ever guaranteed a tomorrow. The scars from my past tell me that every day.
