Moving Forward--Angelique

 

It was late 2013, the excitement of winter break and the start of a new year lingering in the atmosphere. The air was cold and crisp, the school trimester was wrapping up, and the seasonal festivities were slowly approaching. I was 10 years old, completing my final year of elementary school with little to no worries clouding my mind. My two little sisters were 6 and 4 years old, barely entering elementary school, and too young to even worry about the little things in life and what was in store for them. One day, we were all sitting on our couch in our living room, when we saw our mother being helped as she walked down the stairs. She had her hair up in a messy bun, she was trembling, and she had a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders. I heard her coughing and sniffling, and she seemed to be struggling to stand on her own. My two sisters ran up the stairs and grabbed onto her, asking her what was wrong and why our father was having to hold her up.

What’s wrong? Is she really sick? Is she okay?

He simply told us that she was sick, and that she just needed help walking around the house. With the way he phrased it, it only seemed like she had a fever and that it would all pass. Thinking that this was the case, my sisters and I brushed it off and continued with our day. A week later, my sisters and I arrived back home from school to find that our mother wasn’t home. I walked up to my father and asked where she was, and he told me, “Your mommy wasn’t feeling better, so I had to take her to the emergency room.”

The emergency room.

“Will she be okay?”
“Yes, she’ll get better soon. She just needed to see the doctor.”

It all seemed so simple. She would stay there for a short time, see a doctor, get medication, and feel better in a few days.

Those few days turned into a couple of weeks, which turned out to be multiple months. What started out as a simple fever became pneumonia.

As the first half of my fifth grade year came to a close, I continued to wonder when my mother would be coming home from the hospital. My little sisters missed her every day, and our house seemed a lot emptier without her bright, outgoing personality. Every week or so we’d get an update about her from family who would visit her in her hospital room.

“She’s doing better! She’ll get out of there in no time.”
“She’s having trouble breathing and talking, but she’s still able to eat.”
“She misses you guys a lot, and she’s determined to come back home after she gets better.”

We even received an audio message from her, telling us that she would feel better, she missed us, and that she would be home soon.

That audio message was the last time we would ever hear her voice.

Over the course of the next few weeks, she lost her ability to speak, she had difficulty breathing, and she was permanently bedridden. They had to put various types of tubes into her in order to help her breathe, and she communicated with my family members by writing on a white board with a dry erase marker. My father never let me and my sisters visit her in the hospital, as he didn’t want us to see how skinny and frail she had gotten. He wanted us to remember her as she was when she was at home; smiling, laughing, and healthy.

One day, my father pulled me aside and told me, “Don’t tell your sisters, but your mom’s heart stopped today. They got her back, though, but now we’re really worried about her...”

Whatever else he said after those words became a muffled mess compared to the pounding of my heart in my ears. Everything flooded into my head at once, but at the same time, I couldn’t help but focus on one single thought. This was the first of the few signs that really solidified the fact that she wasn’t getting any better.

I know what’s going to happen.

As I neared the end of my fifth grade year, there were still no signs of my mother leaving the hospital anytime soon. Deep down, I knew that she wasn’t going to make it out of the hospital alive. I knew it, but I didn’t want to believe it.

Please, no.

Then, in April 2014, she passed away.

Obviously, I was sad. I felt like a part of me had been torn away from my grasp, and I felt empty and alone. It was like I was reaching out, trying to hold onto something, only for there to be empty air everywhere my fingers could touch. I cried after I heard the news, but I was also frustrated. I was angry and confused and I felt that what had happened was unfair.

But at the same time, it didn't hit me as hard as it could’ve. I felt that I had seen this coming from miles away, so when my dad told me, “Come upstairs. I need to tell you something,” I already knew what I was going to hear.

It hit my family hard, and we held her funeral soon after. We were forced to continue on with life as if we hadn’t just lost one of the most important people in our lives.

Due to her passing away at such an early stage in my life, I was forced to fill the motherly role for my two younger sisters. This resulted in me doing most of the household cleaning, helping cook meals, and

helping with homework. Since I was balancing my household responsibilities and advanced academic classes, as well as going through middle school, I was dealing with immense stress, which developed into depression and anxiety. For a few years, I never asked for help and slowly began to seclude myself from my family, as I felt the need to face my own issues without anyone else’s help. My grades slowly began to slip and my passion for learning began to deteriorate.

As much as I wanted to take care of my sisters and help my father around the house, the depression and stress overwhelmed me and I started to break down over time. However, as I entered high school, I decided that I wanted to start seeing a therapist, and she helped me recognize that it was okay to seek help from others. I was able to perform a lot of self reflection, and I slowly but surely began to bring myself out of the rut I had been in. Due to my positive interactions with my therapist, I became more interested in mental health awareness and I began to take psychology based courses, do my own research, interview family members who specialize in psychology, and more. My passion for helping others and mental health awareness began to grow over time, and I decided that I wanted to become a psychiatrist. Although my mother’s death led to the development of mental illnesses, it ultimately shaped me into who I am today. The new mindset I developed allowed for me to have a more positive outlook on life, and I become more empathetic and understanding of, not only myself, but those around me. I pride myself in being someone who’s able to connect to their feelings, as it has given me opportunities to help others through their own personal issues. I started indulging in several after school clubs and activities, I joined my school’s leadership program, and I started joining multiple volunteer groups within my city. Although my mother’s death was an overall negative experience, I would never have become the passionate individual I am now, and I’ve become someone people can come to when they need help or guidance. Thanks to the supportive friends and family members that have helped me over the past few years, I’ve been able to grow, care for my family, and continue moving forward.