Writing Contest - Honorable Mention
Fear
By Nicky Te Poel
I could see it in her eyes before she told me, could almost hear the words screaming from the tears running down her cheeks. “Dad died,” my sister finally whispered, as she stared out the window at my family’s small, winter-barren farm two days after Christmas, six days after my 13th birthday, and the day my father was scheduled to come home from the hospital he had been rushed to four days earlier. As I sat in my room, I was struck by the realization that a relentless fear that had controlled me for many years was lifting.
That fear had crept into my life on what should have been a joyful night three years earlier. I was home with my dad and siblings when my uncle, a soldier on leave, showed up at our front door. We were sitting around the kitchen table talking when my dad’s head dropped to his chest; in an instant, he hit the hard, wooden floor. My uncle ran to him, my sister called 911, but all I could do was say his name, hoping that he would answer. Once he was upright, I left the room to slow my heartbeat and cry tears I didn’t want my father to see. Why hadn’t I done more than just stand there and say his name? Why hadn’t I noticed him weakening and prevented the fall? Why was I so helpless?
My father was often fatigued by his battle with systemic scleroderma—a battle that began before my birth. When he would come through the door after a strenuous day working the farm, I would have his oxygen ready, hoping that he wouldn’t pass out. At night, I would rub his swollen, purple legs, trying to convince the blood pooled in them to return to his overworked heart. My actions were prompted by love. But they were undoubtedly motivated by my fear of coming to terms with my dad’s pain and, ultimately, his mortality.
I witnessed him collapse repeatedly, each time unable to do anything. Others were there to help him; I was useless. Sometimes, I couldn’t stand to stay in the room with him. As soon as I knew he was being cared for, I would leave, often to lock myself in the bathroom, where I’d kneel on the cold linoleum and pray. I would pray for his health, that this would never happen again, or, if nothing else, that I would be able to do something if it did.
After my father died, I promised myself that I would do everything I could to overcome my paralyzing fear. I wanted to gain some control, some power, some understanding so I could be helpful in a crisis.
When I was 17, my niece was born with a congenital metabolic disorder, and I was put to the test. I helped care for Katie in order to give her exhausted parents a break. Her care consisted of giving her six medications every three hours, injecting heparin into her central line every other day, changing her dressings, and handling the setbacks that could occur at any time. I would come home from school and check her medication schedule, and hold and talk to her. At 9 months, she got a kidney infection. We spent days in the hospital, listening to the hum of the dialysis machine, praying that it was doing its job. Late on a foggy night, my brother called: Katie had died.
I realized after Katie’s death that I had finally confronted my fear. I had not run away from my niece as I had from my father. Although I was just an instrument—I made no decisions and simply followed directions—I had gained enough knowledge and skill to be helpful. As I became more sure of myself, the less afraid I felt. It was at that point that I knew I wanted to become a doctor.
Since then, books and classes have taught me many things about medicine. Watching doctors in action has shown me more. But it was those early experiences that made me determined to learn all I can so there will be fewer instances when I feel the fear that comes from being helpless. I know that fear will still come. But as I learn more and become more skilled, I’m confident I can face it so that I’ll never run away again.
Nicky Te Poel grew up on a farm near Rushford, Minnesota, and is starting her third year of training at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. She says she writes to remember. “With this piece, I write to remember my family members and the incredibly strong feelings I had during their illnesses and after their deaths. As I begin to see patients and learn their stories, I want to keep these memories fresh so I remember why I’m in medicine.”