Sarah Katherine's Personal Narrative

Sarah Katherine Doyle
Mrs. Donahoe
Advanced English I
21 February 2011

One in One Hundred


The night of my sister’s medical scare was the night that I realized how much I take what I have for granted. She and my brother Christopher had had their tonsils removed the previous week. Caroline had a particularly difficult recovery. She was constantly vomiting and always in a lot of pain. My usually loud, talkative, funny little sister had become someone I didn’t recognize. She slept, ate, and watched TV all day every day, hardly saying a word.
The surgery had occurred on a Monday, and the following Monday my parents went out to dinner with some friends, leaving me in charge. I was doing my homework at the kitchen table, sleeping on the living room couch was my brother Christopher, and Caroline and my other brother William were in the basement watching TV. Everything seemed to be running smoothly enough until I heard William’s panicked call.
“SK! Come help, there’s a lot of blood!” I ran down the stairs to see my ten year old sister in a state of complete and utter distress. She was coughing up spurts of blood. Compared to the amount of vomiting that had occurred during the week, the amount seemed trivial. We later found out, however, that anything more than a tablespoon is considered dangerous.
I somehow managed to get her upstairs to the bathroom, put her hair up in a ponytail out of her face until the coughing and bleeding stopped, wash her face, get her into a new set of pajamas, and go back to the basement to spray some Resolve on the blood stained carpet and sofa. By the time I finally got all of this accomplished, we were all exhausted and it was time to calm my terrified sister down and get us all into bed.
I tossed and turned until I finally managed to fall into a light sleep. The lights went on. I heard my sister crying. I heard my mother saying everything she could to try to mollify my hysterical sister. I got up slowly, sleep still in my eyes, trying to focus on what was going on. I walked down the hallway to the bathroom, and I’ll never forget what I saw.
Caroline was bent over the toilet, endless streams of bright red blood projecting from her mouth, while endless streams of tears streaked her pallid face. It looked like she had been shot. My mom held her hair with a look of pure worry and concern on her face. I was in shock. For a second I couldn’t move. There was so much blood. For a moment, all I could think about was the blood until I realized that my sister needed me. My mother handed me her hair, usually golden but now red and matted, and went downstairs to call the doctor.
The vomiting didn’t stop. Between each time I tried to calm her down. “There’s so much blood!” she cried over and over. It hurt just to watch.
The blood finally stopping, I guided her back to her room to change her clothes for the second time that night. I could hear snippets of my mom talking on the phone. “She’s ten… We live in Saint Matthews… We could probably be there in around twenty minutes.” I could tell she was trying to be calm for Caroline’s sake, but I could hear bits of panic rising in her voice.
She came upstairs just as I had gotten Caroline into new pajamas. She went to wake my dad and tell him what was going on. “She needs to go back into surgery,” I heard her whisper. Apparently Caroline heard it too. It sent her into another panic. It took everything I had to get her calmed down and into the car. They were gone. The minute I saw the lights of my mom’s car out of the driveway, horrible, heart wrenching images flashed through my mind. I was nearly as scared as she was.
Exhausted, I went back to sleep, and the next morning called my mom. It turns out Caroline had thrown up even more blood once they got to the hospital which led to her passing out from loss of blood. “It was like an episode of Grey’s Anatomy,” my mom told me, clearly relieved that it was over. She had been very close to needing a blood transfusion, and within thirty minutes she was back in surgery. The doctors told my mom that an artery was bleeding inside her throat. The chances of this happening were about one in one hundred. If she hadn’t have gotten to the hospital, my sister would have been dead.
After that night, I consider myself even more protective than your average big sister. I can’t even imagine what would have happened if my mom hadn’t called the doctor. Now I try to be even more involved in my sister’s life. I ask her questions about her life, her friends, her school. I’m more shielding and supportive. That night was a reality check for me. I’m more aware than ever that I’m so lucky to have people like Caroline in my life, people that love me unconditionally and rely on me. I’m making an effort to not take them for granted anymore.

A Letter to Gangan

Dear Gangan,
Cousins Weekend ended yesterday--our first since you've been gone. We had blueberries but not blueberry muffins; we should next time. We took pictures but not on the hot tub steps; I don't know if I'll ever be able to do that again. We had fun; we laughed; we played; and we missed you. Sarah Katherine told me last night she kept feeling a void. Gangan, I feel that void a lot. Every time I want to share something with you, I feel that void. But as I've been sitting here missing you this morning, wanting to talk to you, wanting you to be in our pictures, I realize that you tried so very hard to make sure we wouldn't feel that void. You insisted on Cousins' Weekend; you built cousins weekend, and although we miss you, although we want you there, you made sure we had each other. You taught us that it matters to take time for each other; it matters to make the time to be with family--to be with the ones you can be yourself around. Shared memories--happy and sad but shared together--a shared history.

I've been so sad thinking of all the things I didn't learn from you. I don't know how to make watermelon pickles, and I don't know how to knit a ski sweater. But I know I did learn the most important thing from you--I learned how to love my family warts and all. I learned how to love them with an unconditional love and I learned that they love me with that same love. I learned family matters, family will always matter. Thank you Gangan. I love you.

Open Palms

Kneeling at the altar with open palms. What does that mean? Why do we come to the altar? What do we hope to gain? What do we have to give up? Why do we open our palms?
In that simple act we are giving up and we are receiving. We are giving up all the hurt and pain form the past week that we have had done to us and that we have done. We are releasing the anxieties and worries of this life. And we are giving thanks to the God who gives us grace and allows us to start again. Open palms say, “I am vulnerable; I don’t have all the answers; I don’t know; I am sorry; I am thankful.”
And into these hands we receive. We receive the body of Christ that fills us, renews us, and grounds us. It says, “you are mine; you are forgiven; you are loved; go and do the same. Go and be the same.”

The Bible isn't a Laundry manual

Many years ago I decided that instead of resenting all the laundry I had to do I would use the time for prayer and reflection. When I do the ironing, I pray for the person whose clothes I am ironing. When ironing sheets I pray for rest for those who will sleep in them, and when ironing napkins I pray that the food will be blessed and the fellowship around the table will be joyful. I sometimes do the same thing when folding clothes.
The truth is, there are still many times I find myself grumbling doing laundry. I get frustrated with the mismatched socks, the wadded up clothes that I have to untangle, and the ever present shirts inside out.
Growing up, I was told, "If you leave it inside out, it gets washed and folded that way." So as often happens, I just follow that along into adulthood. Until a few weeks ago--I decided that I would turn every shirt and pray while doing it. I decided that this would be an act of love and service. "Really," I thought to myself, "What's the big deal?" For several weeks I have very proudly turned every shirt as though each was a notch in the peg of becoming world's greatest mother. I admit I even thought, "One day the children will remember this."
Yesterday while doing laundry and reflecting on this, and I must admit thinking about how I was so unlike my own mother. I realized how incredibly full of pride I was for turning shirts. My act of love and service had become a way for me to glorify myself and honestly a way to criticize my mother. Pride and arrogance had taken the place of servanthood and love. And I began reflecting-
Why did my mother not turn our clothes? Perhaps it was because she was in a hurry or perhaps it was because she was trying to teach us. Perhaps she was trying to teach us how to care for our clothes, trying to teach us to care for the things we have been given and the things we have bought. Perhaps there is a bigger lesson in this. Perhaps there is the lesson of caring for all that we have and do and treating things as well as people with respect. And I began to think about what all this could mean theologically. What does this mean for me as a Christian? Does it matter if I turn the clothes or not? What is the Christian thing to do? I couldn't come up with an absolute.
So often in our lives there are no absolutes. Every incident we encounter, every choice we have to make cannot be looked up in the Bible as though it was a policy manual. So how do we make those decisions; how do we know what the "right" thing to do is; and is there always one "right" thing?
Jesus loved. Every act he did was out of love and service to others. Jesus taught and Jesus served. He got angry and frustrated with his disciples, and he was tender with them. But everything came from love.
How should this guide my life? I must ask the question, "Why am I doing what I'm doing?" Do I turn the clothes as an act of love and service, or do I not turn the clothes as an act of love and teaching? It all comes down to love.

Saint and Sinner Reflections on a Woman I Love

She didn't think I was perfect--but I was as close as you could be.
She held me accountable, but gave me all the grace I needed--and then some.
She loved me fiercely and unconditionally, but some just saw her fierceness.
Her speech built me up, gave me security, wise wisdom and faith to live by, but it could also be wielded like a weapon to tear others down.
She taught me life lessons, how to live and how to love, she taught others how not to be and who to avoid.
Within her was saint and sinner, good and evil, life giver and life taker
Where is that line within me?

Sticks and Stones

"Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words can never hurt me."

Really? Because I'd rather stay up, sitting on the edge of my child's bed administering pain medication for a broken bone than sit up all night holding my child racking with sobs because she's hurt to the depths of her soul.

Give me some morphine and multiple fractures--

Beautiful but different

A few days ago I was trying to set the table and was getting frustrated with what I considered my lack of serving pieces. The ones which were the right sizes for the dishes I was serving did not match the china and were even chipped. I spent a ridiculous amount of time searching for matching serving pieces the right size. I finally gave up and just used the ones I had. A few minutes later, I entered the dining room, saw my family sitting around the table with matching plates and mixed matched serving dishes and thought to myself, "Actually this is perfect. It all coordinates in its own way. It worked out just the way I needed it too, and it's beautiful."

My struggle to build friendships these past few years reminds me of setting the table that night. I have searched and searched for those friends I thought would be perfect matches for me and my family. I have worked hard to cultivate friendships with others who I thought fit me, and I have been disappointed and hurt time and time again. And with all this effort, I have continued to overlook those standing right in front of me. I have continued to overlook those who seemed too different from me to be deep long lasting friends. These past few days have been difficult for a variety of reasons, and as I look through the haze of the emotions I see and feel beautiful deep friendships which have been slowly built over time. The patterns don't match but they enhance me, and I pray I enhance them. I pray that I have served them in spite of our differences and our brokenness. I look at these friendships, and they're beautiful.

As we gather around the altar each week to share in the Eucharist, are we searching for those who we match or are we awestruck by the beauty of the difference?