Fishing Expedition

            My dad has never been the most emotional person. He is very business-like and pretty straightforward. That’s what I like about him. However, this makes it difficult to have those father/daughter bonding moments- especially now that I am in college! This is why Easter weekend was awesome.

            We, meaning my family, are members of a small fishing club in Mineola, Texas called Woodvale. Woodvale is certainly nothing special. It is out in the middle of nowhere in East Texas. There is a small lodge that has about forty (very small) rooms, a main living room, and a kitchen. Located right behind the lodge is a popular train track on which a train goes roaring by about every two hours. This causes the lodge to shake and is extremely loud. However, there still manages to be an amazing sense of peacefulness at Woodvale. Wrapped around the front is a white picket fenced-in porch that has rocking chairs and a porch swing that allows us to simply sit in the shade and look out onto the beautiful, small fishing lake that is just below. Although it is simple, there is nothing like that view.

            Anyway, my mom and I tend to relax on the porch and read while my dad goes out on the lake in our small, yet spirited fishing boat. Over this past Easter break when we decided to take a trip to Woodvale, I decided that I was in more of a fishing mood. We got there around Friday afternoon and decided to relax for a while. Just after dinner though, my dad decided to go out in the boat. To his surprise, I volunteered to go with him. Unfortunately, it was a pretty quiet expedition with only one fish to show for it. It didn’t seem to matter, though. It was a beautiful evening with enjoyable weather and a gorgeous sunset that filled the sky with exploding pinks and oranges.

The next day, after breakfast, my dad and I decided to give it another run. We hopped in our motorboat, fishing poles in hand, and trucked across the lake into the middle one of three coves. It was another perfect day. The sun was high in the sky, partly covered by a random, carefree cloud floating by every now and then. We began casting our lures towards the bank of the lake. One cast… nothing; two casts… nothing; three casts… I was beginning to worry that it was going to be another unsuccessful fishing trip.

My dad periodically moved the boat up the bank until we found ourselves in another cove. We anchored by the lusciously green shore and began casting again. Suddenly, my dad got a hit! He fought to reel in the feisty fish on the end of his line while I frantically threw my pole in the boat and grabbed the net. Success! Our first caught of the day was a nice 1.5-pound bass! My dad managed to work the hook out of the bass’ tough mouth and held up his trophy. I applauded his catch and he gently threw it back in the water. With a splash from its tail, the bass was gone. Within minutes of my dad’s bass, I caught my first fish! I fought the bass as well as I knew how, and managed to get it into the net my dad was holding without letting it break the line.

There is just something about the feeling of working to reel in a fish and holding it in your hands that is just unexplainable. I could tell my dad was proud of me, which made it even more satisfying. After that, the fish began biting like crazy. My dad was up on me eight fish to five when we decided it was about time to go in. On one of my last casts, I snagged one more, bringing my count up to six. As we headed back in, I cast my lure out behind the boat to troll in. Unexpectedly, I felt a tug on the end of my line and shouted for my dad to stop the boat. I reeled in yet another bass, putting me only one behind my dad.

We finally made it back to the dock with the final count being eight to seven. I was so close to beating my dad, although, that did not really matter to me. I didn’t realize how much our fishing excursion mattered to him until I heard him repeat the story of our little competition to three different people when we returned. I loved that my dad was showing off our time together. It made me realize how much fun he and I both had. I may not have many bonding moments with my father, but I wouldn’t trade those I do have for the world.

What a Pleasant Surprise!

            I feel like a lot of times, people say they are not very easy to surprise. I am the complete opposite. It is not that I am completely clueless, or that I am not nosy (because, honestly, I can be pretty nosy at times), but I am so easy to surprise because I am never expecting to be surprised! Surprises are just not a big part of my life; that is why when my parents surprised me with my new car, I was absolutely beside myself.

            I remember it was August 12, 2009. It was another steaming, hot summer day in Dallas just before my senior year in high school, and my dad, mom, sister and I were getting ready to go out to lunch together. I was already exhausted because I had four hours of field hockey practice just before. With me being the first one ready to go, which was quite a rare occurrence, my mom asked me if I could go out front and get the mail before we left. Not thinking anything of it, I walked up to the front door, turned the cold, golden colored lock to “unlock,” and stepped out into the roasting heat. I slowly strolled down my front sidewalk when I suddenly heard the front door open behind me. I turned to see who it was, and to my surprise, saw my mom standing on the porch with her video camera in hand.

            “Mom! What are you doing? Why do you have the video camera?” I remember asking, completely confused.

            Then I saw my dad come out behind her with a white headband with a sparkling pipe cleaner halo on top of it and a sign that I couldn’t quite make out. He came up to me and put the headband on my head and the sign around my neck.

            What the heck is going on? I remember thinking. Just then, I turned around to face the street once again and everything seemed to go in slow motion from there. I saw a clean looking black SUV turn the corner onto my street. It took me a few seconds before I realized that I knew the driver behind the wheel. Lauren, my sister, pulled the car up to the sidewalk in front of our house. I stood there, completely still, trying to put it all together. Why was my sister driving this random car? Why was my mom filming me? Why was my dad putting weird things on me?

            “Holy crap.” I managed to mutter under my breath. “OH MY GOSH!” I yelled, much louder this time. My mom and dad started to chuckle behind me as my sister stepped out of the gorgeous, brand new Toyota Rav-4. I was completely speechless. That amazing car was for me.

            I turned around, still in the same spot as before, and looked at my parents with tears in my eyes. I could not believe that they would surprise me with something as big as this. I was still speechless as tears now streamed down my face. I was engulfed in a happiness that is unexplainable. I was so grateful for what they had done.

            As I slowly began to get the feeling back in my legs, I ran up to my parents and attacked them with a bear hug. I then managed to make out what the sign around my neck said. “You’re almost 18… Happy birthday!” I was ecstatic. After I finished with my family hugfest, I finally got the nerve to jump into the driver’s seat and try out my new baby! That was by far the best lunch I had ever eaten.

Lucky to be Alive?

I know this is way over the allotted length, but I felt it was necessary....

            In high school, I was rather accident-prone. I sprained my ankle multiple times and I always had a scrape or bruise somewhere on my body from sports. The scrapes and bruises never really bothered me- I actually enjoyed showing them off. The ankle sprains were annoying mostly because the healing process was long and tedious. However, none of these injuries were ever that dramatic. Then, in October of sophomore year in high school, my accidents began to become a little more serious. Unfortunately, I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time during one of my field hockey games and ended up being smacked in the face with the follow through of my opponent’s stick. I wound up with thirteen stitches and a broken nose. After a simple surgery a week later and then six weeks of healing, I was good to go. However, little did I know, the following October of my junior year had something much worse in store for me.

            It was a Wednesday morning and I was just trying get through the last school day for that week. We had both Thursday and Friday off for a holiday and I was more than ready for a break. At 9:00 a.m., my friend, Shelci, and I strolled into our school’s gym to sit through another mandatory, boring assembly where other students, not us, were receiving awards. We brought along some leftover homework from the night before to pass the time. With about fifteen minutes left in the assembly, I began to notice that my right ankle felt a little funny- sort of tight. I pulled up my jean pant leg and asked Shelci if she thought it looked swollen.

            “Eh, maybe a little…” she responded with a shrug.

            “I must have tweaked it in my field hockey game yesterday,” I answered. We quickly moved on to something else as we jumped down the uneven bleachers and shuffled through the sea of students out of the gym. Shelci and I conveniently had the next period off, and found ourselves in the library continuing our unfinished homework from the night before. Very shortly after getting situated in the library, I began to realize that my ankle was beginning to develop a dull ache, and looked slightly more swollen. Luckily, the nurse’s office happened to be located in the library so I decided to pay her a visit. I explained to her how I noticed it swelling and it was beginning to hurt. She contently gave me a couple of Advil and sent me on my way. If only it had been that simple.

            I returned to the table that Shelci and I had claimed by our exploded books and papers, and tried to focus on my reading assignment that was due by the next period. I just couldn’t do it. After about twenty minutes, the dull ache had turned into a painfully sharp throb. My ankle was even more swollen, so I returned to the nurse. She wasn’t sure what was going on so she decided to wrap my ankle in medical tape in order to prevent any more swelling. I left her office for a total of about five minutes before I decided that the tape was not helping. The pain got even worse so I frantically unraveled the extensively wrapped kankle. As I got up from my seat to return once again to the nurse’s office, I nearly fell over. Shocked, I looked down at my ankle. It was so swollen and painful that I could no longer hold my body’s weight on it. Shelci had to assist me in walking to the nurse’s office one last time before class. By this point, I could tell that the nurse was beginning to be quite concerned. Because I had class at 10:00 a.m., she gave me a pair of crutches to use and insisted that I go see the school trainers as soon as they arrived at 12:00 p.m. I thanked her, and, trying my best to ignore the pain, headed across campus to the science building.

            My physics class was supposed to last for an hour and a half, but it was only an hour for me. As much as I tried to conceal the pain I was feeling, my teacher saw straight through my façade and forced me to leave early in order to pay a visit to the trainers. Although the trainers were used to seeing me, they were surprised that I was arriving to early in the day. As I hopped up on one of the training tables, I told the trainer how my ankle randomly started swelling only three hours before and now looked like it had a mango under its skin. They tried to take a look, but it was now past the point of touching because the pain was just too unbearable. Only, this was nowhere close to the end of it.

            The trainer elevated and iced my ankle as I laid there, holding back tears, waiting for my mom to take me to the doctor. What seemed like hours later, even though it was only about thirty minutes, my mom and I were on our way to my doctor. We arrived, anticipating only what was going to be more bad news. No one knew what was wrong with my ankle. My doctor sent us on our way to the emergency room. I was starting to feel as though I was on a quest with no final answer. Even though there was no one in the waiting room at the ER, it still managed to take at least forty-five minutes until they could see me. I was now in excruciating pain, and had little patience left.

            Unfortunately, the ER was an extremely unpleasant experience. The doctors/nurses were very stubborn and did not listen to anything I was saying. First, they gave me a shot in my butt! It was for the pain, but it didn’t do much. Then, they did some blood work. They concluded that my white blood cell count was high, but because I did not have a fever, it was not an infection. Then they took X-rays, and that showed absolutely nothing as well. The doctors suggested that I go see an orthopedist. By this time, as you might have guessed, things were not good. My mom was frustrated and extremely worried, and I was to the point to where everything from here on out is kind of a blur because of how much pain I was in. I do know that the nurse tried to force a boot onto my ankle before I left- BAD idea. My ankle was so swollen that it barely even fit. The nurse insisted that I wear the boot. I started screaming in pure agony as she forced the boot onto the balloon that used to be my foot. My mom had finally had enough. She demanded that the nurse leave and take the boot with her. We were out of there.

            Because it was early evening, no orthopedist was at his office. I had not eaten anything all day, so my mom and I stopped by Jamba Juice to grab a quick smoothie. I force it down the best I could. We had an appointment to see an orthopedic surgeon first thing in the morning, but I had a long night ahead of me. My parents had me sleep in their bed that night. I slipped in and out of a light sleep all night long. One of the times I woke up in the middle of the night, I had to jump out of bed the best I could and crawl to the bathroom just in time to vomit from the pain. That was the longest night of my life.

            By the time morning rolled around, I was begging my parents to take me to the orthopedist. We arrived early, but luckily, for once in my life, the doctor was on time. This was an entirely new day, with new luck. The minute the orthopedic surgeon took a look at my red, puffy ankle he knew what it was. He stuck a giant needle, at least a centimeter in diameter, in the side of my ankle and extracted fluid. It was disgusting, but exactly what he was looking for. He explained to me that I had an extremely serious infection in my ankle and needed to be taken into surgery immediately.

            Two surgeries and six days later, I was able to leave the hospital and head home for the first time in a week. I had somehow contracted a Type B Streptococcus infection in the joint of my ankle. With two surgeries, three weeks of IV antibiotics, two weeks of oral antibiotics, and plenty of painful therapy, I was back to normal in about five months. I lost twelve pounds and almost all of the muscle in my right leg- but I survived. It was only this past summer that I finally realized how serious this infection truly was. My mom admitted that she and my dad were much more scared than they showed during the time. Only a week before I had been infected, one of their old friend’s kids had died from the exact same infection, only hers spread to her heart. I thank God all the time for providing that orthopedic surgeon just in time, and for the infectious disease doctor who figured out what it was. I believe that the amount of pain I felt before my surgeries was a blessing so that we were able to take this matter as seriously as it was. Thankfully, ever since that October in 2008, I have become less accident-prone. Let’s just hope I remain that way!