Personal Statement: Informal Essay

When I was seven, I was seriously ill. It started with my legs first. Tiny red dots sprinkled liberally on my ankles, inching up to the knee caps. It was a pointillism painting on my skin, and my mother couldn’t read it at all. She furrowed her eyebrows at my explanation that her freckles were contagious. She took me to the hospital when the icy green of winter was thawing into spring, where the walls were eternally pea-green soup frosted slick. The doctors ordered tests, smiled brightly at me, and told me that I would be out in no time. Indeed, time in the hospital follows no rules of the universe. It is a limbo outside of a bustling world. At first, I thought it fun, lying in a bed all day, exempt from the schedule of classes and homework.
A child of seven isn’t really aware of death. Injections, spinal taps and pills were nuisances, not life lines. I wanted to know why I couldn’t handle community books, or go outside to see the roses bloom in summer. But you’re not completely unchanged. You would have bedmates that would help you make a Lego castle, and the next day, their beds would be empty, the sheets folded into a small, neat roll. You’re aware that your condition hurts your family, though you’re not exactly sure why. While I lay there, in boredom, aware of my parents hurt, aware that my life meant so much to them, I slowly formed a few resolutions, for when I got out of limbo. I wanted to get better, for them. For myself.
I try to keep those promises I made to myself at seven today. I read a great deal. It started in the hospital, and still do today. To know everything you can about this world and how it relates to you, instead of isolating yourself from it. I read a poem that encapsulates much of what I feel recently. Written in the 17th century by a Robert Herrick, it was called “To the Virgins, to make much of time”. To “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may”…it’s a difficult sentiment to live. But necessary. If life is precious, than so is this world that we spend it on. Both are ours for just a little while.
When a friend of mine became ill, I knew what I could do for her. I packaged my Chicken Soup for the Survivor’s Soul book which I had read shakily through at eight; brought some spicy chicken broth to counteract the eternal blandness that is hospital food; and the latest school gossip. She was paler and looked lost in her bed. After a while of talking, she began to cry. She was scared and didn’t know if she would make it through kidney cancer, or what her future would be like if she did. I didn’t know what to say. Careless words can wound worse than any needle. They can make you feel alone in this world. I hugged her, and we both started to cry. I knew I could lose her and I wanted so badly to at least give her some peace of mind.
“Hey. Let’s go look at the roses.”
The flowers bloomed bright in the spaces of the brick garden. We didn’t say anything, but for the short time we had left, gripped hands tightly.