In 2003, a tragic, yet transforming in a different way, thing occurred. He lived a great life, even when he had cancer. In a way, he was my hero. After his death, a transformation happened.
He fought the cancer in a positive way. He went to appointments with my mom faithfully tagging along. I never heard him complain. A moan was his way of complaining. I could eventually guess why he was moaning; it was because of the pain he was in. He had to go through so much such as a bone marrow transplant, surgeries, one day of chemotherapy and radiation, and even a catheter. My parents both protexted me when he was going through all the treatments by not telling me what was going on. They knew I would've been scared. Even just the minor details they told me, I got scared, worried, sad, and about every other negative emotion possible. Being a nine to eleven year old, I couldn't have possibly begun to comprehend what he was going through. I am still amazed to this day how brave he was and an excellent example to those around him. He impressed me so many times a day, it simply became a part of my day.
Much later in his fight of cancer, he wouldn't eat or drink. I can't help but remember those days I came home from school, trying to get him to eat or drink. He'd just sit on his bed, shaking his head, refusing to drink. I still remember that trip to the hospital. I was so scared; I really didn't know what was going on. All I really knew was that he wouldn't eat or drink. I remember thinking on that two hour car ride, 'Is my dad going to die of starvation and dehydration?' I was eleven years old during that car ride.
After we arrived at the hospital, my mom was demanding that they admit him. Since he wouldn't eat or drink, he felt helpless; she couldn't do anything. Almost all of his family came. My half brother and sister were there, aunts and uncles, my grandmother, and even friends of ours came that we always considered family. After about a week in the hospital, my dad caught this infection called sepsis. Sepsis was a violent infection. It slowly shut down his organs, and the doctors asked my mom for permission to put him on life support because they believed they could save him. She agreed to that. At his last few days, most of the family left because of their jobs, leaving only my mom, my aunt and uncle, and me. As a child, I'd watched all of those murder shows on TV, so I knew what life support was, and I was so scared. I knew what was happening, even though no one told me. On March 23, 2005 at 2 a.m., he passed away. I was asleep in chair. My aunt shook me, waking me up from a nightmare that I was having that my dad died and I saw angels walking him up the stairs to heaven ' who knew that nightmares could come true so fast. She was whispering to me that my dad had died. As an eleven year old, my first instinct was to run back to my dad's room, and there he was, with no life in him. My mom was there, bawling, tears running down her face so quickly. I started crying within seconds of seeing him laying there. That night was the longest night of my life. It took me forever to get to sleep, crying for hours. I eventually cried myself to sleep.
As depresing and tragic this experience was, it taught me a lot and changed me into the person I am today. It made me believe even more firmly that everything happens for a reason. It taught me that as slow as it takes to heal ' or in my dad's case, get better ' it only takes seconds to lose someone or something. I also believe from this experience that the more horrible things happen, the more it made me stronger.