You were twelve at the time. As you staggered through your front door after an exhausting day at school, you see your dad patiently sitting on the couch. You make your way toward him and glance down at his foot vigorously tapping on the ground, his knee hopping up and down with the motion. The gloomy look on his face reveals the despair he feels as he takes a breath to begin speaking. Your heart starts beating rapidly as you wait for the words to escape his mouth. Your passion is slowly creeping up on you in the cruelest way.

Your father says that your mother isn’t well and he wants to know if he can trust you to take care of her when he can’t. The words sting your eardrums as you try to comprehend the weight being placed on you. You swallow hard, allowing your feelings to sink deep inside. Looking up with a smile you quietly utter, “I can do it”. Your father pulls you close and squeezes you tight. The secure feeling is reassuring.

As the years pass you quickly learn how to be there for your mother. She’s weak and needs help cleaning the house. She’s weak and needs you to make dinner. She’s weak and needs your love and support.

As you get older the responsibilities become greater. Doctor appointments become more frequent and further away. It’s your job to get her there, you can’t let her down. You spend hours of your day trapped in the stale air of a traveling car. You arrive to cream-colored buildings and strong scents of rubbing alcohol and antibacterial soap as heavy doors waft the smells in your direction.

As you enter the brightly illuminated waiting area you’re welcomed by the bleached white lab coats and framed certificates on the wall, proving the doctor’s credentials. The door creaks on the hinges as you hear the nurse open the old door and call your mother’s name. You help her to the small room and look as the doctor records her stats on the clipboard, held tightly in her hands. She utters the diagnosis, allowing the words to flow through your head and ultimately causing your hands to shake.

Fast forward a few months and you’re rushing your mother to the hospital in the middle of the cold, damp night. The scrunched up look on her face clearly displays the pain she’s trying to mask behind her words. No matter how many times her calming voice tells you she’s fine, you know she isn’t.

You stand with shaking legs as the doctor strolls into the room with lab results and plans.Your sweaty hand reaches out to introduce yourself while he explains the problem that has developed inside your mother. A lump forms in your throat as you try to gather the right words. Your brain is cluttered with thoughts and the sounds of the monitor beeping.

Once the doctor leaves you fall into a heap in the nearest chair and rub the dark purple circles forming around your eyes. Your late nights at the hospital are catching up with you. Your stomach aches as you consider another bag of salty chips from the vending machine down the hall, all while anticipating another sleepless night.

A few days later you find yourself handing the nurse discharge papers as your exhausted mother is released to go home and finish her recovery. Immediately, images of a warm bed and fresh food flood your memory. You get home in record speed and get your mother tucked in as you prepare her medication. The cap pops off of the cold needle head as you clean the injection site with pads wet from alcohol. You pinch her skin and plunge the needle in as you see the liquid drain from the syringe into your mother. She relaxes and drifts off to sleep and you kiss her goodnight. You escape into your room where you fall onto your bed, exhausted from life. 

You rise the next morning ready to handle the day ahead and whatever could be thrown at you today. Although the method was all but ideal, your passion to help people came when pain and illness crept up on your mother and threatened your family stability. Now it’s clear that your career will revolve around helping people and improving their quality of life. For that, and many more reasons, you are eternally grateful.