My eyes slowly crack open, focusing then blurring out. I awake from the darkness wanting to connect to civilization, yet I am restricted. My body refuses the neurological commands. From somewhere faraway, a faint, incessant tone fills the silent room with a vibe of hope. I turn my head to the side, to see a figure walking closer. "Amma?" slips out of my mouth. Her warm hand caresses this hidden pain I feel. "I'm sorry." I say. Warm drops hit my arm and run away as she sobs, holding on to me. Her lips move inaudibly and I stare, slowly trying to find the recipe for this chaos. But I can't find the ingredients that belong in this soup. Nothing makes sense. And everything goes dark.
The broth. My eyes open with a new surge of energy, yet focusing seems to be difficult. My hearing sharper than before, can detect the sounds of civilization: the flutter of human bodies, dialogue in a familiar language, and sounds of car horns blazing outside this prison. I lift myself up, but immediately receive help. I'm given something in my hand; glasses. I put them on, and the world is clear. I peak around: the white walls, the white floors, the white sheets, the white coats, the white's of my mother's eyes, turning red from fatigue. The doctors and nurses rush to me, put a thermometer in my mouth, and start interrogating in Telugu. I don't have the recipe and neither do they.
The vegetables. My mother sits and feeds me. She explains what I don't remember. A seizure so devastating, I had lost control of all my senses and my consciousness. All I can think now, is how my exotic summer vacation in India has turned into a nightmare. My grandparents and mother take turns caring for me as my father calls from Virginia. He talks to the doctors asking for immediate diagnosis and then he talks to me in a weary voice, full of concern. I reminiscence my father's seizure three years ago that shocked our family. Now, my seizure has once again given my mother Hell. Blood tests, urine tests, and blood pressure levels are taken, but they show no signs of disease. The days in the hospital seem longer, as I absorb packets of IV fluid and I even begin to smell like medicine. The doctors finally conclude that I be taken to a testing facility for an EEG, MRI, and a CT scan. I still don't have the recipe, but the tests might have it.
Bringing it to a boil. I am driven across town in an ambulance to the testing facility. I lay down, and the doctors attach the many metal rods to my scalp. EEG: negative. They wheel me to the MRI machine and I fall asleep, as the machine is put to work. The doctors call my name, and I'm immediately awake. They have news.
Salt, Pepper, and Garnish. I am diagnosed with a rare disorder of the brain: cavernous angioma; the same disorder my father has. My father and I are part of 0.4% of the population. The soup is done. The vegetables have soaked in the broth and the salt and pepper complete the soup. All I have to do is to eat. And after I'm done, I'll still be me. I'll still have my passion for music, my aspirations to travel the world, and my morals and values. The only thing different is that I'll know the recipe and how the soup tastes.
How is it? I don't know if it is an appropriate topic for a college admissions essay. I mean, I'm not showing who I really am, but rather an event. How do I tweak this, but keep my "soup" format?
The broth. My eyes open with a new surge of energy, yet focusing seems to be difficult. My hearing sharper than before, can detect the sounds of civilization: the flutter of human bodies, dialogue in a familiar language, and sounds of car horns blazing outside this prison. I lift myself up, but immediately receive help. I'm given something in my hand; glasses. I put them on, and the world is clear. I peak around: the white walls, the white floors, the white sheets, the white coats, the white's of my mother's eyes, turning red from fatigue. The doctors and nurses rush to me, put a thermometer in my mouth, and start interrogating in Telugu. I don't have the recipe and neither do they.
The vegetables. My mother sits and feeds me. She explains what I don't remember. A seizure so devastating, I had lost control of all my senses and my consciousness. All I can think now, is how my exotic summer vacation in India has turned into a nightmare. My grandparents and mother take turns caring for me as my father calls from Virginia. He talks to the doctors asking for immediate diagnosis and then he talks to me in a weary voice, full of concern. I reminiscence my father's seizure three years ago that shocked our family. Now, my seizure has once again given my mother Hell. Blood tests, urine tests, and blood pressure levels are taken, but they show no signs of disease. The days in the hospital seem longer, as I absorb packets of IV fluid and I even begin to smell like medicine. The doctors finally conclude that I be taken to a testing facility for an EEG, MRI, and a CT scan. I still don't have the recipe, but the tests might have it.
Bringing it to a boil. I am driven across town in an ambulance to the testing facility. I lay down, and the doctors attach the many metal rods to my scalp. EEG: negative. They wheel me to the MRI machine and I fall asleep, as the machine is put to work. The doctors call my name, and I'm immediately awake. They have news.
Salt, Pepper, and Garnish. I am diagnosed with a rare disorder of the brain: cavernous angioma; the same disorder my father has. My father and I are part of 0.4% of the population. The soup is done. The vegetables have soaked in the broth and the salt and pepper complete the soup. All I have to do is to eat. And after I'm done, I'll still be me. I'll still have my passion for music, my aspirations to travel the world, and my morals and values. The only thing different is that I'll know the recipe and how the soup tastes.
How is it? I don't know if it is an appropriate topic for a college admissions essay. I mean, I'm not showing who I really am, but rather an event. How do I tweak this, but keep my "soup" format?