She Walks With Angels Essay, Research Paper
Paul Oetinger
Rick Thompson
WRT 121
She Walks With Angels
Few things in our lives will ever prepare us
emotionally, for the death of a loved one. The sadness,
anger, and comfort that fills the heart cannot be imagined.
It was within the last five minutes of my mothers life, that
I realized that I was not prepared. As I stood on the side
of the bed and watched her gasp for precious air, my
emotions took control.
My first thoughts became those that were filled with
sadness. I felt deep sadness and regret, and wondered if my
mother ever knew how much I idolized her. Did I really ever
return the love and care that she gave me? My eyes saw
sadness when looking at the lifeless figure of wrinkled skin
that my mother had become. This by no means was the same
woman who used to wrestle with me and my brothers, and beat
us all. No way could it be the same strong woman, that used
to play tackle football with me when I was little.
I remember one time, when I was about 8 or 9 years old,
I came into the house crying. My mother asked me what was
wrong. I told her that my two older brothers were ganging
up on me in tackle football. She asked the usual mother
questions, and when she found out that they had chosen the
teams as them against me, I quickly had a new teammate. She
grabbed my hand smiling and then we marched outside, with
her striding like a defensive lineman going up to receive
her most valuable trophy award. As soon as my brother?s saw
her come around the corner of the house, with my hand in
hers, they knew that it was a whole new ballgame.
Now my mother was no giant by any means. She was 5?1?
tall and about 140 pounds, but on the first play of
scrimmage, I hiked the ball to my mother and she went around
the right end running over both my brothers. Not only did
she run them both over, but then she even taunted them with
the ball. Both my brothers got up holding various body parts
and cringing in pain. Though she told them that she didn?t
mean to hurt them, we all knew the truth. It was only a
little retribution for me, and to let them know that she
didn?t approve of their unfair tactics. On the ensuing
kickoff, my brother Wes tried to block my mother, it was a
foolish attempt. My mother tossed him aside like a hay bale
being thrown in the loft, and then proceeded to make my
other brother?s body become one with the ground. That would
be the last play of the game, as both my brothers started
whining about how unfair the teams were. It was just what
she had wanted to make them understand. As my teammate and
I went into the house, I had gained a new appreciation of
her. It was sad to see what used to be a vibrant, dark-
haired, attractive woman, turn into a living corpse void of
any coherent thoughts. As I processed these thoughts of
sadness I soon became angry.
I was mad! Why in the hell did I have to lose my
mother, my teammate? ?Why god, why her?? God had chosen
the one person that had been a steady and very influencing
factor in my life to join his band of angels. All my
beliefs, values and ethics were strong willed from the hand
of mom. I was mad at the fact that my mother was being
consumed, eaten, by a disease that didn?t play fair. My
anger only grew worse when I started to think of the pain
and suffering that she must be enduring or had endured. Why
does she have to lie her and struggle to live? Why the hell
isn?t the brain smart enough to know when to shut of the
autonomic response and rest in peace?
As my mothers? breathing increased even faster, I
started to feel comfort in the fact that this senseless act
of living, even when dead, would soon be over. I took
comfort in the fact that this body would soon take its?
rightful place beneath the dirt, and also in the fact that
my dad would be able to start living again. He really was
the one who suffered.
My father had watched his wife of 37 years go from a
strong-willed woman that could take care of herself in any
situation, to a childlike dependency state. He had watched
over the course of a year, my mother who he was very
dependent upon, become more and more dependent upon him. I
don?t ever remember a time that my mother needed my father
for backup or support, but my father was a different story.
He was the one who needed her praise. He was the one that
needed her to take care of the fires and also the one he
needed to rely upon. It was my mother who was my fathers
rock and foothold in the cliffs of life. It was odd and out
of place to see that the proverbial table had turned. As my
mother?s breathing again became more sporadic, and the veins
in her neck began to show the push of all her muscles trying
to grab all the oxygen that they could, I pushed the
morphine overload.
As I pushed that damn, soothing yellow button, with its
green letters, I took great pride and comfort knowing that I
would help to end my mother?s suffering. To know that the
comfort that I would provide with the morphine, would be
like that of which she made me feel many times throughout my
life. It made me feel as though I was coming to her rescue,
like she had done on that day we thrashed my brothers in the
football game. As she gasped for the last time, I bent down
and hug my eternal teammate, my angel for the last time.
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