Teen Essay Contest

2009 WINNING ESSAYS

First Place, $1000 Winner:

"Hey"

          by Miguel Gonzales, Marywood-Palm Valley High School

     I turned around in my revolving, purple computer chair.  My father stood in the doorway leading to my room.  There he was wearing his favorite long-sleeved white shirt with the words Chiquita Pool Service written right on his heart, dirty blue jeans, and one of his famous red bandannas on his head.  His Hispanic toned skin made his grey hair pop.  He was the image of a perfect father.  "Oh.  Hi dad."  That's all I said.

     Entering my room, my father decided to sit down and begin talking about the world, as i f he had all the answers.  To me, my father did have all the answers.  All his philosophies made so much sense.  We talked about religion, science, history.  You name it, we talked about it.  This sudden interest in all these things seemed strange to me.  There was urgency in his voice.  As if this was the last time he would be able to talk to me.  As if this was the last time he would be seeing me.  As if this was the last time he would be able to pass on any knowledge he had to his youngest son.  The last thing he said to me as he left to continue watching his daily sports show was "Miguel, live your life the way you want it."

     Those words in late January were the last words my father was able to speak to me directly.  That was the last message my father passed on to me.  From that day on, my life changed.

     My name is Miguel Vicente Gonzales.  I am seventeen years old.  My father, Vicente Gonzales Sr., passed away on March 6th, 2009.  My father won't physically be there for any future achievements I will accomplish.  He won't be there to see me graduate high school or college.  He won't be there when I get my first real job.  He won't be there when I get married.  Although his physical being might not be there, I know that even as I type this difficult essay he is watching from wherever he is.  As the youngest of four children, people assume that I would be unable to handle the tragic loss of my seventy-one year old father.  They are correct.  I wasn't prepared for death.  No one really is.

     Vicente Gonzales, my father, was no ordinary man.  Being the baby of his family as well, Vicente lived a difficult, wild, and obstructive lifestyle in his early years.  But the man I knew and still love today is my hero.  He was the one I went to when Mom wouldn't let me have my way.  He was the one I asked for help when I couldn't build my sandcastle at the beach.  He was the one who was always teaching me new things to cook for myself just in case I needed to impress someone special.  He was the one who meant everything to me.  Growing up I never thought it odd that people mistook my father as my grandfather.  My father was never old to me.  Every time we went to the supermarket, he would race me back to the car, running as if we both were about to cross the finish line of an Olympic event.  He was the most physically fit being I knew.  Every morning at five thirty, my father would rise out of his warm bed to turn on the coffee pot for my mother and greet the rising sun with open arms.  There he'd be, sitting on his porch, welcoming the sun to his home and garden.  Everyday he would go to work, whether it was simple gardening, or building a pool for some person who would soon become a friend to him.  No matter what day it was, my father had something he had to do, something that needed to be fixed, something that he felt was necessary to accomplish.  And everyday he did this, until late January.

     In early September, the doctor broke the news that my father had cancer, giving him six months to live.  Ignoring the last bit of information, my father just laughed, thinking he would once again prevail over anything and everything.  He was stubborn when it came to his health.  To him, cancer was just another thing to overcome in his life and he was willing to do whatever it took to defeat it.  He began chemotherapy on October 14th, 2008.  My father never missed one meeting, determined he would defeat this cancer.  In December the doctor had good news, saying that the cancer within his lung began to shrink.  My family and I were optimistic.  Things were looking good.  My father would handle this.  He always came through.  But it seemed that our hope would soon be shattered.

     In late January, my father was unable to walk around by himself, needing a walker at all times.  His body began to look weaker, but in his eyes there still burned the spirit of a fighter.  He became so weak that he wasn't able to get up by himself.  Things seemed to be rolling down hill now, and they were.

     Every night starting in February, I would lie in the day bed right next to my father's bed, making sure that if he needed something I would be there for him.  I was there for him.  Lying in bed, I would hear the weak breaths of my father only two feet away from me.  I would hear the monotonous ticking of the clock in the northeast corner of the room.  I would hear the melodious running water from the fountain my father and I built together.  An abrupt cough would lift me out of bed because I knew my dad needed my help.  He would try and communicate with me in low-toned whispers.  All I could hear would be "help me."  I knew he wanted to either use the bathroom or just walk around with my help.  I would hold his wrinkled, feeble hand as we walked ever so slowly down the hallway.  After helping him walk and use the restroom, we would return to his sick room to lie back down.  He would instantly go to sleep having drained all his energy and that one simple walk.  I would stay somewhat awake, knowing that in an hour or so he would want to wake up again, and we would repeat this process till I had to go to school.  I didn't want to leave his side.

     On February 17th, 2009, my family and I rushed my father to the hospital.  We were afraid we couldn't keep him comfortable anymore at home.  We were right.  All the drugs that the doctors prescribed were ineffective.  My father just became more restless and wasn't getting any rest.  He was draining all his energy.  For a week the hospital kept him, and we were all there with him.  Once we were able to control his anxiety we took him home.  I knew he would want to be home, able to see all his flowers and fruit trees.

     As the days went by, I tried to continue on with my life in a normal fashion, but my father was on my mind the entire time.  Schoolwork seemed difficult at the time.  My attention was elsewhere.  Knowing that my father was going to pass away soon, I tried to brace myself, but to no avail.  On March 6th, 2009, my older brother woke me up from my warm sleep and took me to the cold room where my father way lying down, calm and peaceful.  It was 6:55 a.m. when my father took his last breath.  My family and I were there with him.

     This is the poem I wrote for my father after he passed away.  I read it at his services.

A child, no taller than three feet

Grips the aged finger of his loving father.

Side-by-side they walk

Down the cold gravel road.

The child feels the chilling wind

Breathing down his neck.

His father puts his own coat on his son's meager shoulders

To shield him from Nature's unforgiving weather.

They continue to walk,

Together.

A boy, no taller than 5 feet

Holds the wrinkled hands of an aging father.

Side-by-side they walk

Down the cold gravel road.

The man stops. Wheezing, he gasps for air.

The boy holds his hand all the while.

The boy puts his own coat on his father's frail shoulders

To warm him from the cold bitter world.

They continue to walk,

Together.

A son, no taller than 6'4

Clings to the frail hand of his ailing father.

Side-by-side they sit

On a cold white sheeted bed.

A Shadow looms over the headrest,

Beaconing his father.

Instead, his father grabs his coat and enters the light,

Walking the path up to heaven.

They continue to walk,

This time, the road splits, and the son let's go of his father.

I never thought I'd have to let go of my father's hand.

But now, he walks the high road, still watching me as I walk my path.

Second Place, $500

"Let Go"

          by Morgan Whelchel, Marywood Palm-Valley High School

     People don't understand how hard it is to live with cancer.  To grasp all of the pain and suffering that comes along with the vicarious experience.  I was ten years old when my dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer.  As you grow older you acquire knowledge and understanding of things of that magnitude.  But, I was ten and the extent of my knowledge about cancer didn't go much farther than it was a sickness.  Learning to live with cancer was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. But if there was one thing I always told myself, it was life is going to go on...with my dad.

     When I was ten I wanted to do a lot of things.  I wanted to skip down the sidewalk, sing to break the silence, laugh just because I was capable.  But dealing with cancer wasn't one of them.  Everyone has to go through difficult situations, mine just happened to be sooner than I expected.  It was a hot, sunny day in July and my family and I were lying out on the beach.  We went back to the hotel, and everything was about to change.  I remember the minutest details about the worst day of my life.  Who wouldn't?  It was the day that marked when I was going to change, and experience something so beyond me that I couldn't do anything about it.  We walked down the long off white hallway; I was tracing the intricate pattern of the carpet with my feet as we advanced further.  My mom pulled out a brown hotel key with the word "Montage" printed in gold and we entered the room.  Coming from the beach we all smelled of salt water and went to shower.  At 5:23 pm my mom and dad called my sisters and me into the sitting room.  Once we were all seated my mom said bluntly "your dad has cancer".  My sisters and I sat quietly as our mom explained to us what cancer was, and what would be happening over the course of the next few months.  This was the calm before the storm.

I knew what cancer meant.  I could have recited the definition if you had asked me to, but that didn't even begin to cover what cancer actually was.  It's not just a disease or a sickness; it's this life changing thing that annihilates everything in its path.  It pounds and crushes it until it's nothing more than powder.  But it tests us, it tests our ability to build ourselves back up once we have been knocked down, it tests our ability to find hope in something so bleak, and it tests our ability to love.  When my dad was going through chemotherapy, there was no obvious sign, because he had bladder cancer he did not lose his hair.  But he was tired all the time, and his eyes blood shot.  He never had any energy but tried extremely hard to keep smiling, for us, his family.  It taught me to hope, to reach for it no matter what, because I knew that this was not going to be the picture I remembered him as.  Cancer brings about a silence, one that envelopes everything in the proximity screaming out the truth and making me think.  I can't stand it, but I suppose it's not so much the silence that does it, it's the things inside of it.  The things it envelopes, which if you think about it is quite a bit.  It's almost everything it touches.  It steals everything and everyone, except for the things strong enough to push it away and overcome it.  Unfortunately for many those things are all too uncommon.  In my lifetime I've only ever encountered one.  I've hardly ever held it for more than a split second but it was there.  I saw it shine and I felt it flicker, I watched it touch my hand and float away just as fast as it came in the first place.  I've breathed in the smoke it created and I've been blinded by the sparks that flew from it.  I've fought for it, gotten it, lost it, and fought to get it back again.  I've remembered it.  I've been crazy, happy, sad, confused, irritated, ecstatic, enthralled, and sure all because of it.  All because of the love for my dad, and how it's strong enough to scream through the silence.

     I never dealt with it.  I never talked to anyone, or let myself think about it.  Because I knew that no one would understand, how could you?  The immense amount of pain, and suffering, how I jumped for hope, or stayed up at night crying.  It had been three years since my dad was cured, and I never muttered a word.  Psychologically I removed myself from everyone.  So much so that I don't believe my parents even knew that I understood, that I grasped the concept of death, or that I knew that he could die because of it.  I figured that if I just let them think that, it would be easier on everybody.  All I had to do was not fall apart.  I shut myself out for three years, and personally I believe it has made me the person that I am today.  I had time to think, to understand things that people my age w9wouldn't even dream to think about.  I understand how insanely important life is, and how it can just disappear, and that sometimes all you have to do is have hope even if every other odd is stacked against you.  But, I knew I couldn't live the rest of my life secluded from everyone else.  I couldn't continue to hiding away, pretending that I didn't go through what I did.  Up until a few weeks ago, I wasn't ready to tell my story, because, I hadn't fully dealt with it.  But, I met someone who understood.  We had similar stories; his father was diagnosed with liver cancer at around the same age, mine bladder, and we both lived through it.  He told me that it was okay, and that no matter what happens it is going to be okay.  He said that it was okay to cry, and to let it out.  But, most importantly he told me he would always be there, whenever I needed him.  That...that is when I truly let go.

     You can't hold on to all of the pain that you experience in your life.  You can't let it drown you like it did me, for three years.  I can't possibly begin to express the gratitude I feel for the person that helped me get through it because, I know that if I had had him from the very start when my dad was diagnosed with cancer, it would have been easier.  Cancer leaves its mark on everything, even after it's gone, you still live in fear that it will come back, and that you will have to live through it again.  It's never going to be easy for anyone that has to live with someone who has cancer, but I hope that one day I will be the one that helps someone let go.

Third Place (Tie) - $250

"The Last Road Travelled"

          by Krystofer Do, Palm Desert High School

     "Cancer; any malignant growth or tumor caused by abnormal and uncontrolled cell division."  That's all most kids our age know of cancer.  But when it affects your family, it's not just a clinical description, it's a living nightmare.  It becomes long nights in a hospital waiting room, constant worry over treatment turnouts, and the hardest thing of all, having to let go of the person you care about the most.

     In early September of 2008, my father was rushed to the emergency room after fainting from a heart condition.  While in the hospital they discovered he had cancer and was diagnosed with lymphoma: cancer of the lymph nodes, and admitted to Eisenhower Medical Center.  But by the time they'd discovered it, the cancer had spread to his stomach and through-out his whole body.  He wasn't going to make it.

     In order to protect his family, he told only one person, a close relative.  He never told me or my grandmother about the extent of the lymphoma.  He said it was nothing and everything would be fine after a little while.  I believed him.

     On October 11th while sitting in the court yard of the hospital, one of my dad's nurses sat down and started asking me how I was feeling about the whole ordeal.  I still believed everything was fine so I just said I was hopeful and couldn't wait till things were back to normal.  The nurse then told me what I had been dreading everyday to hear.  My dad was dying.

     It was as if a million things were being thrown at me at the same time.  My entire world was changing forever.  A rollercoaster of emotions crashed on me at once; yet, I couldn't feel them.  Everything that I could ever count on, ever believe in, be inspired by, was dying.  My first reaction was denial.  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I had believed everything was going to be ok, and denial took control of my thoughts.  I had a fake, positive, thought in my mind always repeating "It's going to be ok, it's going to be ok."

Afterward, I called my girlfriend at the time.  Even though I thought things would be ok, I still needed someone to talk to.  When I called her I put on a tough front, but inside I was falling apart.  A part of me didn't want to put her through what was going on, but I needed to vent.  She came to the hospital and we spent the day together, talking about everything to distract me from my pain.

     When we visited my dad he seemed to be doing so well, it reassured me things would be fine.  And the next day he was scheduled to start chemo, which went well and he seemed to improve.  But the next day he was moved to the ICU due to high blood pressure.  The Doctor came up to me and told me I needed to say goodbye.  I was absolutely shattered.

I'll always remember the last words I said to him.  "I love you dad.  I promise that I'll take care of Grandma the best that I can.  You were and you always will be Father Figure in my heart."  Father Figure was his favorite song he would always sing to me.  After we said our goodbyes, with him barely being able to speak, he told me to call in my grandma.  They said their goodbyes and we stayed with him for about an hour while he slowly slipped into the coma even he might not have even seen coming.  He remained in a coma until October 16th, when at 11:56pm he passed away.

     The night I got home, I didn't know what to feel.  I was drowning in the deepest flood of emotion I ever sank into, and I didn't know which gulps to swallow first.  I cried that night, probably a sleepless night, and it would be like that for many weeks.

     The first funeral service followed two days after his passing.  Close friends and family were invited, along with my girlfriend.  It was a Vietnamese service.  My dad's family was Vietnamese, although he was also of American descent.  The funeral was about 2 hours long and filled with Vietnamese chanting that I couldn't understand unless my grandma told me what it meant.  I wrote a poem for my dad, promising him that I would believe in myself and always be there for my grandma.  After the funeral, it was another crying, sleepless night.

     The cremation service followed a week after the first service.  It was filled with more chanting, and it was a little longer.  When the time finally came to cremate him, my mom and my grandma were both there.  There were 3 buttons to press to finalize the cremation.  We pressed them, all three fingers pressed on the buttons.

     Since then, my road's been a long and painful one, filled with all too many pieces of advice and lectures to keep count of.  I am grateful, though, that this one experience has taught things that most teenagers don't know until they're full-on adults.  It has taught me that life is short, and that you never know when something tragic might happen.  Always be prepared for tragedy, no matter what the situation, and never think you can handle it by yourself.  For those who know what it's like to lose a loved one to cancer, they can relate to this story and the pains and experiences it gives.  For all who may be awaiting the passing of a loved one, or might still have a fighting chance, remember that it can get better, and that your loved one would want you to live as happily as you did with them.

Third Place (Tie) - $250

"The Thyroid Cancer Scare"

          by Kelsey Mezrahi, Marywood-Palm Valley High School

Essay remains private at Ms. Mezrahi's request.