KIM ROSEN FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Today's essay is one of two selected from a Grade 11 English contest at Garth Webb Secondary School in Oakville, Ont.
Early summer morning, Toronto. Sipping a cup of delicious hazelnut coffee with whipped cream in a café, watching the gloomy skies and rain falling gracefully on the beautiful city. I suddenly felt so nostalgic and melancholy. I was little again, watching raindrops fall on the window of a car in the gloomy city of Moscow, where I once lived.
It was a midwinter night in 2007, the turning point of my childhood. I remember moving slowly through the dark shadows of tall buildings on the way to hospital. Heavy raindrops were smashing suicidally on the car window, and an angry wind was howling. A silver moon was sliding through the clouds, emerging randomly here and there as if trying to hide from something.
My mom was holding my hand tightly, my dad listening to the radio. My body became stiffer as we came closer to our destination.
At the hospital, I was quickly put into a bed. I laid on my back, counting light bulbs on the ceiling and praying. I still believed that if I really wanted something I would get it.
The door opened and my parents came in with worried faces. My mom kissed me, my dad too, and then they told me I was really sick. They said that my appendix had burst and an infection was spreading quickly. I would have to have an operation and stay in the hospital for a while.
Time froze as their words echoed in my head. I was shocked and scared. My naive hope broke, and I saw reality in a strange, indirect way. Everything inside me twisted and turned, and my body felt cold.
I recalled my last surgery, three years earlier in Switzerland, the removal of a blood-vessel tumour: the cold room covered with metal, the giant bright round lamp, the metal table and razor-sharp tools. I'd never seen so much metal. My dad carrying me and holding my hand as I fell asleep. Clutching my plush toy and seeing all the doctors around me. I wasn't afraid then, but I was afraid now.
After a few moments, a nurse came and told me to rest. She said the procedure would be done tomorrow, and right now she would give me some medicine to help me relax. I said okay and calmed down a bit.
In reality the procedure was done that night. The doctors and my parents had agreed to put me to sleep right away so I wouldn't panic and delay things, risking more complications. When I woke up the next day, the surgery was already done.
The days in hospital were hard. I had to see some tough things. There were a lot of fatally sick children there, suffering the kind of pain no child should have to endure. Some couldn't walk, eat or sleep at night.
It hurt to see them. But we all had a kind of bond between us; we supported each other and tried our best to be positive. It was like a family, though not the one you'd want to stay in forever. It was a melancholy, strenuous time, but we had our fun days.
The day of Christmas I remember well. Santa Claus (Father Frost in Russia) came and gave us candy. I was so excited, but when I opened mine I was awkwardly surprised – the candy was the "healthy" kind, not the yummy kind. Still, it was nice to get a gift from Santa. Other days we didn't do much, just stayed in bed, waiting to go home, staring into the walls.
Some of the walls had writings on them: messages from sick kids. Reading them was mournful, but also made me realize how lucky I was: I wasn't sick with a fatal illness; I had a family that supported me. Instead of burying myself in self-pity, I saw how blessed I was. Because no matter how bad your situation is, there is always someone who is in an even tougher one.
I learned how much my parents loved me. My dad came in every day to cheer me, and my mom stayed overnight. It was prohibited for parents to sleep at the hospital unless they helped the staff; so, to stay with me, my mom scrubbed the floors and slept on chairs (there were no extra beds). I couldn't quite comprehend their love. They were so determined and caring, my heart hurt.
And a lot of people at the hospital had that rare sort of kindness – real and raw. I saw it in their eyes. My doctor had it radiating from him. I will never forget him, or the other children, or my parents' love.
During those days in the hospital, I grew up; it was as if my view had expanded. I decided I wanted to become like my parents and those doctors, glowing with kindness and showing people there are things to smile about even in the darkest times.
Suddenly I heard someone yell outside; my sister. Her head was poking out of her car, and she gestured for me to get in. I quickly got into the car and we rode off.
I looked at the sky and saw it wasn't gloomy any more. The rain had stopped, the sun was shining. I remembered my mom telling me that blind rain means good things are coming.
I smiled inside; the ride felt very tranquil. I felt light, looking forward to the new journey with a big, bright smile on my face.
Olya Lazareva lives in Oakville, Ont.