I'm trying to respond to the University of Florida request about a meaningful event and how might affect my experience and contribution the the University. I hope this is moving in the right direction.
The request to cite a meaningful event is always challenging. Prior to May two thousand and six my response might have been my parents divorce. The early hours of May the seventh that all changed.
I was awakened by my mother with word that she was taking my stepfather to the hospital. He was not feeling well and she was concerned, but not worried, they drove to the hospital rather than call "911". A family friend came to stay with me while I tried unsuccessfully to sleep, at five-forty-three the phone rang. My stepfather a strong man of fifty four years of age had suffered a stroke. The right side of his body was unresponsive and the doctors were still assessing him. Mom remained calm as she told me and I felt less frightened when she handed my stepfather the telephone and he reassured me.
In the days that followed the doctors gave us the prognosis, with aggressive therapy he might walk in six months using a cane. Keith listened intently and then assured the doctors it would not take that long. Those words would sound like denial coming from anyone but my stepfather. He refused to accept defeat and neither would I.
He was promptly transferred to the most aggressive treatment center in our area where treatment began immediately; he had to learn to regain use of his right side. Starting with a walker and then a special cane he moved one agonizing step after another. When others stopped to catch their breath Keith always insisted on doing more. Those first days set the tone for his recovery, when he was given exercises and asked to complete three repetitions I found him doing four. Each day we prepared to visit him, I never treated him as a sick person, he would never want that. We talked about my day, how classes were going, and the normal things of our day to day life. Though a struggle we tried to walk most evenings if only down the hall. Mom and I would often surprise him with a treat, a favorite food or the "Jamocha" shakes he was so fond of.
Keith is a school teacher and this was almost a painful for his classes as for Mom and I. One of the teachers brought by an envelope filled with cards, his students and their friends had made them. After I left work one Saturday Mom took me to visit, Keith and I read every card while Mom tried to get some dinner. When I saw his response the idea struck me that he needed work in addition to therapy. Mom called the principal of his school and asked for papers for him to grade, at first she thought we were kidding but I assured her we were not. On the last day of school my stepfather arrived before any of the students and most of the staff. The line of people to see him extended down the hallway to the main office.
The request to cite a meaningful event is always challenging. Prior to May two thousand and six my response might have been my parents divorce. The early hours of May the seventh that all changed.
I was awakened by my mother with word that she was taking my stepfather to the hospital. He was not feeling well and she was concerned, but not worried, they drove to the hospital rather than call "911". A family friend came to stay with me while I tried unsuccessfully to sleep, at five-forty-three the phone rang. My stepfather a strong man of fifty four years of age had suffered a stroke. The right side of his body was unresponsive and the doctors were still assessing him. Mom remained calm as she told me and I felt less frightened when she handed my stepfather the telephone and he reassured me.
In the days that followed the doctors gave us the prognosis, with aggressive therapy he might walk in six months using a cane. Keith listened intently and then assured the doctors it would not take that long. Those words would sound like denial coming from anyone but my stepfather. He refused to accept defeat and neither would I.
He was promptly transferred to the most aggressive treatment center in our area where treatment began immediately; he had to learn to regain use of his right side. Starting with a walker and then a special cane he moved one agonizing step after another. When others stopped to catch their breath Keith always insisted on doing more. Those first days set the tone for his recovery, when he was given exercises and asked to complete three repetitions I found him doing four. Each day we prepared to visit him, I never treated him as a sick person, he would never want that. We talked about my day, how classes were going, and the normal things of our day to day life. Though a struggle we tried to walk most evenings if only down the hall. Mom and I would often surprise him with a treat, a favorite food or the "Jamocha" shakes he was so fond of.
Keith is a school teacher and this was almost a painful for his classes as for Mom and I. One of the teachers brought by an envelope filled with cards, his students and their friends had made them. After I left work one Saturday Mom took me to visit, Keith and I read every card while Mom tried to get some dinner. When I saw his response the idea struck me that he needed work in addition to therapy. Mom called the principal of his school and asked for papers for him to grade, at first she thought we were kidding but I assured her we were not. On the last day of school my stepfather arrived before any of the students and most of the staff. The line of people to see him extended down the hallway to the main office.
