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Amy

Imagine watching a person you care for slowly deteriorate before your eyes. Wither away from a disease that can't be seen, tested, or cured by any kind of pill.

I didn't know how long it had been going on, but I knew that it was. It was more evident with each passing day. The color of her face slowly grew paler, her cheeks became more sunken, and the clothes she had worn just the week before seemed as if they had grown a size larger on her small frame.

Then one day, the problem suddenly became much more apparent. She sat down in the desk in front of me, and I noticed something on the inner side of her right leg. Just below the hemline of her skirt I saw three jagged letters.

FAT had been carved into her tiny thigh. Two weeks later Amy didn't return to school after going for a doctor's appointment. A friend informed me that she had been hospitalized. Not long afterwards, on a pleasant Saturday in October, I went to visit her, accompanied by a mutual friend and a very concerned teacher.

The three of us had a great time on the car ride on the way to the hospital. We talked, told jokes, and shared funny stories. What began as a trip to a friend in need suddenly became a sort of girls' day.

Looking back on it now, I wonder how we managed to laugh and smile despite the purpose of our outing. Yet somehow the fragrant flowers I held on my lap and the colorful balloons crammed in the back with Jackie seemed to add to the sunny feeling of the car instead of reminding us of our destination.

All too soon, the hospital loomed in the distance. I don't know what it was about the hospital, but it seemed to make all of us much more subdued as soon as we entered. Amy's mom had given our teacher directions to Amy's room, so my friend and I followed her lead, winding down the hallways.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor, and I'll never forget the first thing I saw when the doors opened. There was a large, plastic, and altogether heartbreaking sign on the wall. Apparently, the eighth floor had the sole purpose of treating people with "Eating Disorders."

I was horrified. My body temperature seemed to drop several degrees as a cold rush came over my body, yet somehow my hands were clammy. A woman I assumed to be Amy's mother was headed towards us. Mrs. Larson looked at us with a warm smile and genuine appreciation in her eyes.

When it was my turn to shake her hand, I almost started to cry. She said, "You must be Christine, I've heard all about you. Thank you so much for coming." I didn't even know that Amy considered me as such a close friend.

The fact that I was so important to her touched my heart. "Thank you for letting me. I really miss having her at school." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

Deeper feelings of pain and ache over this situation bubbled inside of me, but the words to describe them would not come. Mrs. Larson then led us down the hallway, explaining that Amy was in the common room.

As we walked, I took in the atmosphere. It was the most uncomfortable place I've ever been in. Smelling like rubbing alcohol and antiseptics, with drably painted walls, it was as inhospitable and uninviting as possible.

There was a thin, cold edge to the air that made me shiver and hug my shoulders. Being surrounded by other girls with the same eating disorder as Amy also brought much distress to my heart. When I walked into the common room, Amy was standing by herself, looking tinier than ever.

The sweatshirt and sweatpants she was wearing hung off of her, giving her the appearance of a small child. Ms. Kyung was the first to give her a hug, but I soon followed. Taking her withered frame into my arms, I could feel the frailty and the stress her body was under.

I struggled to fight back tears. As Jackie and I gave her the balloons, flowers and stuffed teddy bear we had brought as presents, all I could think about was how terrible she looked. Her eyes were tired and their color was faded. However, I noticed a dramatic change in her expression as we all sat down to talk.

A smile spread across her barren face and I was glad that we could bring even a tiny sliver of sunshine into her day. At one point in our conversation Amy had to go for some tests. Mrs. Larson then gave us some more personal insight into Amy's illness, and I felt terrible that Amy had never shared any of it with me before.

Mrs. Larson told us that Amy felt like nobody loved or cared about her. A tear slid down my cheek.. I couldn't keep it in. If only she had known how wrong she was. At that moment I would've given anything to make her see that she was a beautiful, kind and altogether wonderful person.

It was a wish to make her see her strengths, to see that she didn't have to fill anybody's expectations in order to be loved. On the car ride home there was very little laughter, very few smiles, and no jokes or stories. The formerly bubbly atmosphere was instead filled with a penetrating silence.

The car didn't feel as warm, the sun didn't shine so bright, nor did the air smell so fresh. I could see the discomfort lining the faces of my companions, and knew instantly that the anguish I was feeling was affecting them as well.

For me, prominent thoughts of what I could've or should've done raced through my head. I should've asked her, I should've talked to her about it, I wish I would've just told her . I knew it wasn't my fault, but I still wished that I could've done something to help. Over two years have passed since that day, and Amy has just recently turned the corner.

She was healthy for our high school graduation, and my heart swells to see her smile again. Through all the difficulties and challenges, my friendship with Amy has taught me a great deal. Now, I realize how valuable friends really are, and how much some people need you more than you'll ever know.

You have to value life, and cherish the time with people who are close to you. Most importantly, you can't ever be afraid to tell someone that you love him or her.

Amy was such a kind, genuine person, that most everyone who knew her liked her. But no one ever told her that. She didn't know how much she was cared for, and consequently didn't care about herself.

Every night I am grateful that I was able to help Amy through her hardships, but I am also grateful because Amy changed my life.

No matter what, I will never again forget to let someone know what he or she means to me, because I know now that a kind word spoken in a single moment can echo through a memory for a lifetime.

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