We have here a pair of prose pieces. The first is by senior Dan Bishop, who recently wrote a great personal essay on the value of combining transcendental meditation with athletics. He submits this as a companion piece, a short work of vivid, dream-like prose:
Following the Path of no Path (to discovery)
“Tha thump………. tha thump………. tha thump.”
Everything is moving slowly. I watch bright stars fly past my head, rumbling throughout my entire body. I soar through galaxy upon galaxy, planets floating by, passing me, as I look on with amazement. Coming to familiarity. Earth—so small, innocent, peaceful. I see land masses, white foamy clouds, a blanket of water that seems to be hugging life. I am falling at a very slow rate, contemplating every thought and image I see.
Closer and closer, I lower. Through atmospheres, different pressures pushing against my body, I still breathe. I am calm. I slip under the surface of a forever white sea. The fog clings to me. The brightness makes my eyes squint, but I am still at peace, I still see. I reach out, feeling the humid texture. Some areas are more damp than others.
At one point in my descent, there is a break in the clouds. I stare, in amazement as a golden beam shines through an opening in the top layer. It illuminates the area around me and then flows past. The radiance bounces off the endless white floor beneath me, surrounding me once again before I continue on down through to the bottomless blue ripples.
I float down to the water, but stop a few feet above the surface of the deep blue. I can only see this blue carpet that continues on for miles. I follow no path, for anywhere I go leads to the same place. I reach down and feel the cool wetness. It flows though my fingers gently. I look down at the aqua mirror but see no image of a man. I see life and its true purpose.
In that moment, I have completed my goal. I open my eyes, find myself reborn in this new world. I get up from the seat of contemplation. I have found myself.
Next we have a powerful essay by Danyelle Shufelt. As part of our study of the heroic tradition in our English Literature Honors course, students must undertake a quest of their own choosing, an experience they then parlay into a personal essay. Here is Danyelle's quest, a brave and moving piece:
The fear of returning to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center (DHMC) has distressed me for almost three years now, since November 15, 2004
I was in the eighth grade when my father came into my classroom to get me out of school. I remember his red, swollen, and watery eyes. I knew something was terribly wrong. I didn’t know whether to ask him or to wait for him to tell me. I couldn’t wait. I asked him before we got outside of the school. There was no response. He continued towards the car. I then insisted he talk to me. With hesitation and a crackling voice, he told me that Michele, my little sister, had been diagnosed with leukemia. My heartbeat raced, my knees felt weak, and my tears began to flow. I felt my world had been turned upside down.
The two-mile drive home seemed to take longer than usual. I had to see her. I couldn’t wait. I felt this was my last day with her. I walked into the house and around the corner she came, running towards me, her usual self with her usual smile. I stared at her for a long moment. My first thought was, “Why this was happening to my innocent seven-year-old sister?” I had so many questions that needed answers. Why God? What could she have possibly done to deserve this? I asked God why it wasn’t me. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t survive without her. There was no way I could go on without her in my life. She is a part of me, an essential part of who I have become. From this point on, my little sister, Michele, became my hero.
Michele was admitted to Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital the next day where she stayed for the next 10 days. My sister Jessica and I stayed with our oldest sister, Stacey. My younger brother James stayed with my Uncle Jason and Aunt Jen. Stacey, Jessica, and I looked after one another while my parents stayed at Dartmouth with Michele.
We went to Dartmouth almost every night. Michele was on the 5th floor, Room 539. I remember the smell of her hospital room. The fumes of hand sanitizer, Purel, were everywhere. We spent our time discussing current events, playing air hockey, and strolling around the hospital. Jessica and I were given the opportunity to bathe her. I recall having to be very careful with her IV.
The nurses soon got to know the beautiful, happy, and brave child my little sister was. She became known, by many staff, as the “Care Bear” girl. Her nurse, Faye, called Michele’s room the “Care Bear” room. Michele was obsessed with care bears and had every kind of care bear ever made. Her favorite was the “Cheer Bear.” This was her favorite because her nephew Dylan had given it to her the previous Christmas. The nurses also came to know the loving parents Michele had. The entire staff was attentive and passionate towards them. In the short time, my parents had bonded with many people who cared for their little one.
Michele was released from the hospital ten days later on Friday, November 12, 2004. The first day at home was beautiful, as we were all together again. Michele got everyone’s full attention. On Sunday, we attended the service at Sutton Baptist Church. Later in the afternoon, early evening, Michele didn’t feel well. Her stomach was upset. This was the norm as her medicine had often made her feel sickly while in the hospital. We took turns rubbing her stomach while she watched her Care Bear movies. Around nine o’clock on Sunday night, my mom made the first call to Michele’s doctor, Dr. Larson. Over the next three hours or so, my mother made additional calls to Dr. Larson. There was no fever so no need to worry yet.
My father made the last call to Dr. Larson. Dr. Larson instructed my father to take Michele to Northeastern Vermont Regional Hospital (NVRH). A short time later, NVRH “darted” Michele to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center by helicopter. My mom went in the helicopter with her.
I went to school not knowing it would be Michele’s last day on earth. I worried about her nonstop. Not knowing her condition ate at me constantly. I received a note late morning telling me that my aunt would be picking me up early to go to the hospital. I was filled with mixed emotions. I was anxious because I was going to see Michele but also apprehensive and scared not knowing how she was doing.
I quickly sensed the uneasiness in my aunt’s behavior when she picked me up from school. She struggled when telling Jessica and me that the doctors were having difficulty in stabilizing Michele. I really didn’t understand what she meant and could only hope my little sister would be all right. I prayed to God all the way to Dartmouth. I felt more scared than I had ever been.
Jessica and I rushed into the hospital and went to the 5th floor, where Michele had previously been. We were taken to another floor where our parents met us. Before we could see Michele, my father said he needed to talk to us. He explained to us that Michele was close to death, and she did not look herself. My father prepared us as well as he could have. I am not sure if my breathing stopped, but I felt my entire body tremble more and more the closer I got to her room. My mind was going in all directions. I can’t do this, I thought. This can’t be happening to me or to my family. I walked slowly to her bedside. Here she lay unconscious. No movement and no sound. The sight of machines and tubes took over my thinking. My body immediately filled with fear and unbearable pain. The pain was so deep and so strong.
I remember the hours I stood next to her side, holding her hand, and begging and pleading for her to not leave me and telling her how much I loved her and how much I needed her. After several hours, around 6:30, she slowly, with all her remaining strength, lightly squeezed my hand with her little fingers. I stepped aside as I wanted to share this moment with my sister Stacey. Hope filled us for a short time. Going back to this moment, I didn’t see the warning message, as I couldn’t comprehend what was actually happening. I believe, without any doubt, Michele was letting us know it was getting close to her time and she was ready. I hold this belief close to my heart, today and always.
Dr. Larson came into the room a short time later, around 7:50. I remember his focus was directed at my parents and not at me or my sisters Jessica and Stacey, and brother James, who were also in the room. This was the only time during this day that all seven of her immediate family members were in the room together. Dr. Larson spoke to my parents using terminology that was unfamiliar to me. Dr. Larson was in the room for what seemed to be seconds, when machines started beeping and flashing. Then there was silence. The time had come. Michele returned to her heavenly father at 7:58pm on November 15, 2004.
The screams and cries from Room 7 could be heard throughout the floor. Some fell to the floor, some pounded fists into the floor, others rushed out of sight, and some could only stand there in silence totally absorbed in disbelief. I remember there were so many people rushing towards me. We embraced, we shed tears, and we held each other tight. The remainder of the evening is a blur.
Here I am, over two and half years later, still longing for the presence of my little sister, Michele. I long to hold her and to tell her how much I love her and miss her. Though I have not accepted losing her, I have accepted that there are things I must do to go on without her here on earth, whether it be cry my heart out for hours into days and isolate myself from the outside world or whether it be to try and stay active to keep my mind from going to places that easily and instantaneously bring me to the bottom. These places I refer to are the many unending visions of what she would look like, what dreams and tears we would share, what she would do during our family events and situations, what her choice of friends and activities would be, what she would want me to teach her or her teach me, what role she would assume in our family, and so many more. My choice is to continue on facing every agonizing moment with courage and hope. I do this for her and because of her. Michele is my inspiration to live each day to its fullest.
There have been many challenges through my journey of grief. There were many times I couldn’t function and didn’t know if I was going to make it to the next moment. I have grown in faith and hope which have helped me to return to the places and objects that remind me of Michele and that bring pain and sadness—her home, her bedroom, her classroom, her four-wheeler, her snow machine, her tee ball field. Yet, there are other places I find easy to steer clear of and therefore have not returned, such as her hospital room.
Then one day, I realized, it was time.
On Thursday, October 11, 2007, I gathered my strength and wisdom to return to the place that had haunted me for almost three years. I left school at 10:30. The only thing I hoped at that moment was to be able to fulfill my quest. For the most part, I felt ready to take the journey as days before I had prepared myself for the worst. As I walked to my car, I felt my stomach tighten. I thought to myself, This isn’t going to be easy. I asked God for extra strength and courage to continue on.
My drive down went by rather quickly, as I had to focus on finding Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center. Once I got off Exit 13, I noticed several familiar markings—the beautiful bridge across the Connecticut, the one-way street my brother-in-law, Joey, mistakenly took on one of our trips.
Upon my arrival at the North Entrance of DHMC, my stomach began to turn. I was very nervous. I thought I had lost my mind to venture all the way down here by myself. As I entered the hospital, my mind was focused on getting to the 5th floor of CHAD (Children’s Hospital at Dartmouth). Then suddenly, there was the familiar smell of hand sanitizer I had come to despise. I had to remind myself to continue on. Many memories and thoughts of Michele at this hospital flashed through my mind. I wanted to cry but found the strength to hold it inside – until I saw Jenn Rupp, Michele’s family counselor, for the first time in almost three years. I could not control my emotions. I let my emotions show and my tears flow. Jen put her arms around me and held me for a long moment. This gave me comfort and strength to gain focus and continue on.
Jen led me into the new lounge where we had a short, pleasant conversation. We discussed the rooms I hoped to return to: Room 539, the family lounge, and the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). During my walk through CHAD, many places were familiar to me: The foyer, family room, playroom, and chapel. There were a few changes—the game room had been turned into a nurse’s station, the family lounge was a different color with new furniture. Most obvious was the paintings of animals on the windows.
My mind floated back to the paintings Michele had done on these same windows. Michele’s choice of painting was the Boston Red Sox. Many thoughts began to pass through my mind. I thought back to how much pride she took in her art work and how many of the visitors who came had no doubt she had something to do with the Red Sox paintings. Everyone who knew Michele knew she liked the Boston Red Sox, knew her favorite player was Johnny Damon.
Room 539 was the same—cool, smelling of Purel. I sat down and reflected on the time I sat with Michele on her bed, and we read all the cards she had received from her classmates and faculty at Sutton School. I remembered there were so many cards, at least 50 that she had received just on that day alone. Other memories included Michele and her three sisters taking pictures together and me writing a note of encouragement on her white marker board in her hospital room. Being in this room was not easy for me as I naturally returned to the moments of my last days with Michele. I then changed my direction and imagined how I would react to the family lounge and ICU.
The family lounge did not look like I had envisioned. The walls were a different color and the furniture was new. I once again used all my strength to be able to return to the last minutes of Michele’s life. I went back to the moment my father told me that Michele was probably not going to make it. I took deep, slow breaths as many memories and feelings flashed through my mind.
I was unable to go into the Intensive Care Unit, as it was occupied. I can’t say for certain what would have occurred, but I think it was for the best I couldn’t go in. Instead, I settled for just peeking through the windows of Room 7. I thought back to the exact moment when I lost Michele, to the sight of my family running from the room. I heard the screams from a distance. This was the high point in my quest because the images had stayed deep within me for a long time and had been the most painful to return to. For a moment, I felt it was happening all over again. Then suddenly, I felt my body release the pressure that had built up inside me and realized I had crossed the most difficult path of all. I can’t describe the peace within me knowing I had conquered the one thing I feared the most.
My victory in this quest instilled confidence in me to face any obstacles ahead and any fear that comes my way. I now have a better sense of how others have been able to confront and overcome their own fears. I wasn’t sure of what to expect and whether I would be able to return to the place I last held my little sister or bring to mind the last moments I had with her. It was definitely a test of courage, though nothing compared to the test of courage my little sister faced. She was so brave to take on such a powerful disease. Not once did she appear to be scared. She never knew what fear was and never will now that she is with God. There is no fear in heaven. This brings comfort.
I made a decision to defeat my worst fear. This is a choice I had. Michele didn’t have a choice. This brings me to the questions that remain: Why didn’t Michele have a choice to live or to die? Why her, so young, so innocent, so precious, with so much love yet to share and so much life yet to live? I could spend the rest of my life asking why, but I know my answers are yet to come – when I am with her again. For now, it is enough that she is my strength, my source of inspiration to this very day. She is my angel. I won’t lose her again.
