Death was something new to me. I had never had to deal with someone close to me passing. I had experienced my friends losing a grandparent or a distant relative, but it had not affected me terribly much. I always considered myself to be lucky I had not suffered through the pain of losing someone brought. When this finally occurred, the first challenge was presented to me: accepting the fact I didn’t have a father anymore.…
In An Hour or Two Sacred to Sorrow by Richard Steele, Steele discloses how his early losses made him more tender hearted and aware of death and sorrow. In the beginning, Steele starts by reminiscing the day his father died. Steele as a child, did not understand exactly what was happening but that he should be feeling a sense of sorrow. It was only when his mother sat “weeping alone”, that he knew something was wrong. Steele continues on claiming that as you get older you gain a better understanding of the situation than you did when you were a child.…
In “An Hour or Two Sacred to Sorrow” by Richard Steele, Steele tells his story, advocating the mourning of a loved one’s death, deeming it acceptable because of the positive memories, between the late and the late’s beloved, recalled; the acceptance of other’s help will aid them past the pain. Steele was five years of age when his father passed away. Oblivious to the situation, he felt sorrow from watching his mother grieve. Steele explains that infants’ individuality is replaced with influences from their surroundings, which explains the feeling of sorrow he felt at such a young age in spite of the fact that he had no grasp of the situation. Although humans know death approaches, they still lament over deaths; “thus we groan under life, and…
It’s in our sick and dying bed that we are sadly given no other task but to evaluate all our years of living. The body no longer full of vigor nor fight, the heart heavy form sorrows past; the footsteps of death nocking at the door serve as an earnest call to evaluate and make peace with all we did in life. Suddenly, its time to review the many chronicles that compose our life story. As I look back on my life I am overwhelmed with grief. I grieve not for missed opportunities, God knows I seized every opportune moment. I grieve for the misjudgment of my ambitious endeavors, which will be forever erroneously highlighted and remain an eternal blemish upon my legacy.…
Arriving home from school, being picked up by his neighbors, “At two o’ clock our neighbors drove me home”(3). He heard the devastating news that someone died in his family. Upon arriving home, “In the porch I met my crying father”(4), showed how death can causes so much trauma and confusion. His father crying,…
I chose to address this prompt in an imaginative form as I was inspired by the story of the child and man that lost their lives in the Boston Bombings. This event had a strong impact on me and my awareness that bad things do happen to good people. My imaginative piece was written as a poem by the man who died in the bombings. I wrote this poem in the first person and in current tense to convey a sense of pain and suffering in this dying process he experienced and had to go through. This poem is aimed at the horrible people who did this and they should know what they did and how it affected people. It also could help society realise how bad this event was and how because of the actions of cruel people occurrences like these do happen. Now because of these heartless souls someone else’s life will never be the same. Because of these actions someone is now missing a son, a brother, a grandson, a husband and a friend that they can never get back or see again. My purpose of this piece was to move the audience and to educate the people about the experiences of this treacherous event. I decided to discuss the process and the emotions of what the man was going through after the bomb had hit. I said ‘events flashing before my eyes’ to make that connection to the myth that when you die you see your whole…
Once I saw my father almost lose his life for a lady he didn’t know. These are the kind of experiences that make me surprised he lived till this age. As people entered this place today, many walked up to me offering their condolences and mentioning all the various things that my father had done for them. Some said he was a brother to them while others hardly knew him. That’s the charm about my father. You didn’t have to know him before he sacrificed something for you. I used to dislike that side of him as he hardly had time for me. It wasn’t until we came to America that…
For me I would say that my dad is not supportive to me. My mom and my dad they divorced and then my mom married another person which is the one I live with now. I feel really good with my stepdad, and my mom is happy. My biological dad to me, it just the memories from the past that I hate. I would like to forget about the past memories and it would be easy for me to become a different person. He is the one that I will not ask any help and any supports…
I never thought me, of all people, would experience such a sorrowful day. I have tried to forget it time and time again; but the reality is I will always remember every miniscule detail, moment, word, and facial expression on that particular day. My heart managed to shatter into a million pieces, leaving me without a reason to pursue my existence. My salty tears freely rolled down my warm cheeks, causing my eyes to burn sensationally. I remember mourning on the comforting shoulders of my family members, as they too were consumed by their feelings. The most valuable lesson that beared a reservation in my spirit was to cherish every moment and loved one, for tomorrow is not guaranteed to anyone. I wish I could have fathom this reality before the climactic tragedy struck me like a ton of bricks. Although death is normal, it seemed almost foreign when it abducted the life of my favorite uncle.…
When my step father committed suicide, it was the most shocking yet influential experience of my life. The whole situation expanded my understanding of mortality, spirituality, and of just how fragile happiness is. I can still remember the day that it happened; It was unlike any other day. I was in school when brother picked me up after lunch. We met up with my mother, and brother at my grandmother's house. The entire atmosphere was off. No one was acting like themselves. Immediately I knew something was wrong, even if their expressions and body language were not obvious enough. After sitting in the living room for what seemed like an eternity, I went into the next room where I found my mother who was crying, and when I asked what was wrong…
I’ve been told the impact of a parent’s passing can carry on for years or forever. I was my mother’s primary care giver for two years. In her last four months, along with hospice, I took care of her full time along with maintaining my full time job. She passed in her home surrounded by me and my other two siblings in January. Just three months later my dad, who was not married to my mom, died unexpectedly in his sleep. I am still in the tender times of grief from my mother’s and father’s deaths. Who would think I could fathom writing about such a sorrowful time in addition to writing about the lessons I learned from my mother’s last months and the graceful way she left this earth. I relive this not only because it is kind of…
Once again, I found myself wandering through the uncomfortable, brightly lit halls of the hospital. I was to find the room where my father was, an all too familiar task. "Room 443", I was told by my mother who had requested me to take my dad back to his apartment. Upon entering the elevator I let out a sigh of apprehension and turned to wearily push the button labeled "4". Whiffs of disinfectant products meandered themselves inside my nose while I looked around to see egg-white walls and nurses shuffling about in their bright, floral print scrubs. One of them approached me with a kind smile. "May I help you?" I briefly responded saying I needed to find my father, Charles Jolitz. "Go down the hall. He's in the last room on the left." Slowly making my way to the door, I speculated about what had happened to my dad this time. I entered the room thinking to myself, "Boy, he looks worse every time.", his salt and pepper hair ruffled, beard unshaven and a look of loss on his face. Though as soon as his eyes met mine, that face lit up and the corners of his mouth upturned into a smile. "My chickadee!", he exclaimed. I asked him how he was feeling and if it was time to go as the nurse carted in a wheelchair. All three of us made our way down to the lobby exchanging small talk. I dashed to my car, happy to be out of the dreariness that is a hospital. I hoped he would tell me why he was there yet again. Once in the car, he told me in a few words that he had had another episode due to taking his pain medication with a fifth of vodka and had lost control. He ended up dialing 911. My dad hurriedly changed the subject asking if I was hungry and if I would like to go have a burger. I let out another sigh. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm not hungry, I've already eaten but I can take you to get one. We can go for lunch later this week." "Alright, sweetie.", said he. We arrived at his apartment complex and I walked him to his…
This story requires a little back story, it was the spring of 2001. My dad at the time was 69, he had had quadruple bypass surgery three years earlier. I had four children a 17 year old step daughter, nine year old daughter, six year old son and a three year old daughter. My husband was out of town with his father attending his niece's blessing. (it is the equivalent of a catholic christening.) His mom had decided to not go since she was there when my niece was born for two weeks and felt she needed to be home for the weekend. My mom was out of town for the weekend at a womans LDS conference in Salt Lake Ut. My dad was all alone for the weekend and wanted to come down to visit.…
As everyday life goes on, human beings are constantly faced with challenges that require sacrifices. In Frank McCourt’s memoir titled Angela’s Ashes, he talks about the constant battles his family has with life. He faces issues that no child should have to deal with leading up to his adolescent years: deaths, poverty, hunger, and toil. McCourt titled this memoir as a tribute to remember his mother’s unremarkable suffering. His purpose demonstrates that regardless of the experiences one goes through, it is critical to understand that life must go on and recuperation is part of life. McCourt’s use of tone in the memoir is a perfect combination of bitter, but quite inviting to keep the reader absorbed. McCourt uses tactile, olfactory, and visual imagery to identify the challenges his family goes through; his purpose is for the readers to identify themselves in similar situations and to let them know everything will work out for the better in the end.…
Some nights I dream about Michael. He’s coming home from college for christmas break and he’s brought a girl with him. Our family is sitting at the dinner table and he’s giving my sister’s new boyfriend a hard time. He’s sitting in the audience, whooping and hollering as I walk across the stage and receive my diploma. Other times, he’s standing in a waiting room, introducing my sisters and me to his little girl. I dream about all of the moments my family and I never got to have with him and my heart breaks every single time. Michael has been gone for almost 16 years and yet he is still with me every day. I dream about him and what could have been; what should have been. Michael’s death teaches me something new almost every day. I have learned what loss is, how to deal with it, and how to grow from it.…