July 4, 2013 5:03 P.M.. The emergency room bed was covered with plush jersey sheets. I was moving all around unable to stay in one spot for more than 10 seconds. I was perfectly fine the 24 hours before. Excruciating pain shot through my abdomen. “The only way to solve this is through surgery.” The old doctor broke the shocking news to me. It was the news I never wanted to hear and the news I never thought I would hear. I never imagined I would have to have surgery, let alone emergency surgery. Tears started pouring down my face. I didn’t want surgery, I didn’t want an ugly scar, I didn’t want to be cut into.

My parents glanced my direction and immediately came to my bedside. Putting his arm around me my Dad reassured me, “Everything will be okay.” He handed me a box of tissues as I wiped away my tears. He didn’t leave my side. He just sat with me and stared into my eyes, trying to read my thoughts. When my emotion was settled, things ran through my head. Surgery no longer had a bad connotation to me, but rather a good one. Surgery meant relief to me, relief from all of the pain, the misery, the agony I was going through. It did not mean pain to me anymore, but the exact opposite. I was confused and scared, but not bitter. My life had suddenly changed in many ways, something I wasn’t expecting.

July 9, 2013 4:33 P.M.. Two nurses, one blonde and one brunette, were right by my side. They were guiding me through the hallways of the surgical center on the west side of Troy Beaumont Hospital. Our destination; Operating Room 14. The brunette nurse was talking to the other as we went through the doors, “I clocked her in, lets get her on the table and get things started.” I was a rookie. I didn’t know what was happening. Fear was overtaking my body, running through my blood. The fear was the same fear of taking a math test, not knowing the correct answers. Either pass or fail, in this case, life or death.

Vents were all over the place, practically covering every square inch. I was shivering, but not because of the frigid cold air touching my skin. Huge strobe lights were dangling from the ceiling. My eyes had the same look in them like a deer in headlights. The anesthesiologist was to my left wearing scrubs. He had a mask over his face which was partially covering his gray beard. He started to explain to me what he was going to do. He was my teacher. He took away some of the confusion I had with what was about to happen. He made me prepared for the math test, or in this case surgery.
I was fine until I glanced over and saw the huge metal robot staring at me. All of my previous feelings came back to haunt me. The nurse, wearing purple scrubs, saw my emotion like it was written in the air above me “I will be by your side the whole time. I won’t leave you.” My body was calmed. I stopped shivering. The tone in her voice made me feel like she was a mom to me, someone who would look after me. Although I was physically uncomfortable laying on the hard, silver, metal surgeons table, I felt comforted. I smiled, then I was out.
July 9, 2013 8:13 P.M.. I woke up to a different blonde nurse’s soft voice, “Mackenzie, how are you feeling?” I was starving considering I wasn’t able to eat anything since the day before. She came back with a small package of graham crackers. They almost appeared to be in a brown paper bag. A message was written above her head, “Have a good day sweetie. You will do great on your math test today. I love you.” I was being watched over by a careful eye. I felt like nothing bad could happen to me. I had a new destination. My destination; recovery.
September 9, 2013 4:33 P.M.. Exactly two months after my surgery. Two months after the most painful experience in my life. My scar, the lasting after effect of trouble, is probably one of the best things that has happened to me. It’s suppose to be one of the worse things that happen to me, but turns out to be the exact opposite. It is the first time in my life where my purpose is clear to me. I have a direct view to the light at the end of the tunnel. I always have had the want to help people, but I didn’t realize this until I saw it in the operating nurse, until I saw it in a different person. I am just like her. I want to do what she did for me and change their lives, even if they don’t always see it. The nurse to this day doesn’t know she changed my life, but she does know she helped me at that moment.

I love the feeling I get when I help someone. My heart gets a warm feeling, the same feeling your body gets from standing by a fireplace. My body thrives off of the social interaction between two people. All of my past actions and thoughts finally make sense. The reason I visited my grandparents alone one summer wasn’t because I missed them or wanted to travel, but rather to help them, to care for them, and to comfort them. My present actions are also different because I realize the meaning behind them. I take my time to help people, not only if they’re struggling physically, but mentally because I want to look out for them. If I was to see an old lady struggling to walk down the street I would help her and guide her along, or if someone was depressed I would help them gain their confidence back. Its my burning passion to care for others, to care for the world.

July 9, 2033 4:33 P.M. I am standing in the operating room. My purple scrubs shining in the lights above me. Two nurses bring a patient into the operating room ready to have surgery. The words “I will be by your side the whole time. I won’t leave you” escape out of my mouth. As I put the patient to sleep, a smile appears on their face. A feeling enters my heart. I have a final destination. My final destination; caring for other people.