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She Walks With Angels Essay Research Paper

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,

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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