Prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.
It was a very inconvenient night to be thirsty, since my trachea was occupied by a tube, I couldn't exactly drink. The best I could do was pressing a button to notify the nice-and-pretty nurse to let her know that I needed water. But she didn't come that night. My thirst became so unrelenting that I almost destroyed the protective bed railings by shaking them in a very wild fashion. Finally, another nice-and-pretty nurse came and tapped my lips with a Q-tip, soaked in the most delicious water I had ever tasted.
I was in a children's ICU. I don't remember much of the events that brought me there Everything I "know" is extrapolated from a classic story called "About That Time Irene Contracted Dengue Fever."
I don't remember much of the trip we took to Yangon, Myanmar, my parents' birth country.
I don't remember being stung by a deadly mosquito.
I don't remember much of my ride in the ambulance, rushing to Taipei Veteran's General Hospital.
I don't remember the needles and IV's in my arms and chest, either.
Despite all these details I can no longer recall ― reasonable since I was merely seven ― I can safely suppose that my disease and subsequent hospitalized days (and nights) taught me something vital to survival.
When I was younger, it seemed like almost everyone in the world was around me. There were my nanny, whom I spent the first five years of my life with, my kindergarten and elementary teachers, and my playmates. I was never left to my own devices.
This changed when I became hospitalized. My parents, in the few hours they could actually tear themselves away from work, brought me my favorite books and Disney movies, which certainly didn't fail to offer me entertainment during my bedridden days. After exhausting all the amusement that these movies could offer, I decided I was free to roam around the hospital. Well, now I don't think I was, for the nice-and-pretty nurse became quite livid when I attempted to play hide-and-seek with her.
I could've sought other children's company, but they were either sleeping or their parents were talking to them while they were sleeping, so I didn't dare to interrupt. Instead I chose to amuse myself, by looking at some chubby and smiling babies, or going to the cafeteria where I chatted with some exceedingly delightful lunch ladies, whom I believe offered me a lot of chocolate chip cookies.
I was quite a happy hospital-camper.
By the end of my hospitalized days, I learned how to be alone without feeling lonely, in other words, the value of solitude. Solitude served as a teacher and a masseuse for me ― it has not only taught me how to trust and think for myself, but also served as a mechanism for relaxation and rejuvenation. Now, ten years later, no longer incapacitated by a tracheal tube or being agonizingly thirsty, it is still a most treasured company and friend.
It was a very inconvenient night to be thirsty, since my trachea was occupied by a tube, I couldn't exactly drink. The best I could do was pressing a button to notify the nice-and-pretty nurse to let her know that I needed water. But she didn't come that night. My thirst became so unrelenting that I almost destroyed the protective bed railings by shaking them in a very wild fashion. Finally, another nice-and-pretty nurse came and tapped my lips with a Q-tip, soaked in the most delicious water I had ever tasted.
I was in a children's ICU. I don't remember much of the events that brought me there Everything I "know" is extrapolated from a classic story called "About That Time Irene Contracted Dengue Fever."
I don't remember much of the trip we took to Yangon, Myanmar, my parents' birth country.
I don't remember being stung by a deadly mosquito.
I don't remember much of my ride in the ambulance, rushing to Taipei Veteran's General Hospital.
I don't remember the needles and IV's in my arms and chest, either.
Despite all these details I can no longer recall ― reasonable since I was merely seven ― I can safely suppose that my disease and subsequent hospitalized days (and nights) taught me something vital to survival.
When I was younger, it seemed like almost everyone in the world was around me. There were my nanny, whom I spent the first five years of my life with, my kindergarten and elementary teachers, and my playmates. I was never left to my own devices.
This changed when I became hospitalized. My parents, in the few hours they could actually tear themselves away from work, brought me my favorite books and Disney movies, which certainly didn't fail to offer me entertainment during my bedridden days. After exhausting all the amusement that these movies could offer, I decided I was free to roam around the hospital. Well, now I don't think I was, for the nice-and-pretty nurse became quite livid when I attempted to play hide-and-seek with her.
I could've sought other children's company, but they were either sleeping or their parents were talking to them while they were sleeping, so I didn't dare to interrupt. Instead I chose to amuse myself, by looking at some chubby and smiling babies, or going to the cafeteria where I chatted with some exceedingly delightful lunch ladies, whom I believe offered me a lot of chocolate chip cookies.
I was quite a happy hospital-camper.
By the end of my hospitalized days, I learned how to be alone without feeling lonely, in other words, the value of solitude. Solitude served as a teacher and a masseuse for me ― it has not only taught me how to trust and think for myself, but also served as a mechanism for relaxation and rejuvenation. Now, ten years later, no longer incapacitated by a tracheal tube or being agonizingly thirsty, it is still a most treasured company and friend.