&Pixels

Quills

2013

UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS AT LITTLE ROCK

WRITERS NETWORK

Quills & Pixels is the peer-reviewed, student publication of the UALR Writers
Network, an organization dedicated to spotlighting the importance of writing in
society. It is written, edited, designed, and printed on the University of Arkansas
at Little Rock campus.
2013 University of Arkansas at Little Rock Writers Network
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&Pixels 2013 STAFF

Quills

DEVELOPMENT EDITORS
Tara Adams, Elizabeth Bostwick, Jennifer Ellis, Jade Fitch,
Emily Goza, Darricka Malone, Bethany May, Michael David
Measel, Bianca Pollard, Jennika Smith, Jasmine Williams

PRODUCTION EDITORS
Tara Adams, Elizabeth Bostwick, Jennifer Ellis, Jade Fitch,
Emily Goza, Darricka Malone, Bethany May, Michael David
Measel, Bianca Pollard, Jennika Smith, Jasmine Williams

LATE PRODUCTION AND COPY EDITS

Chuck Anderson, Jennika Smith

LAYOUT & COVER DESIGN

Tara Adams, Bethany May, Jennika Smith

GRAPHIC DESIGN
Jennika Smith

PHOTOGRAPHY
Restless Photography by Adam Peterson (www.therestlessone.com)
Jennika Smith

TABLE OF CONTENTS

11

Kathryn Brady Ragan

I Believe

16

Emily Kearns

The Gifted Class

20

Deana Nall

Town Hall

27

James C. Wilson

The Other Side

36

Christine Stuckey

225,412 Miles

47

Mark Isbell

She Waits

57

Kathryn Brady Ragan

An Exercise in Remembering

61

Lacey C. Thacker

Serenity in Brown Eyes

65

Jessica Sahene

That Sick for That Long

77

Deana Nall

The Walker in the Bright Pink Hat

82

Mary Stuart

A Healthy Fear of Wasps

89

Heather Haile

Survivor

92

Ian Bennett

Life with Glaucoma

100

Bobby Coleman

(W)AILINGS

III

(HEART)(BEATS)

II

(SILENCES)

The Water Fountain

IV

111

Kids

Michael Schackel

117

The Evolution of Music

Jessica Sahene

128

Red Bam

Cody Lynn Berry

141

Riding the Waves

Lacey C. Thacker

147

Shoes

Paul Scott

153

Crooked Tree

Samantha Scheiman

159

Harvesting Rhetorical Strategies

James Wilson

172

A Valley Girl Primer

Jodi Whitehurst

188

Putting Barbie Out in the elements

Paul Scott

191

My Piece of paradise

196

Contributors
and Submission
Guidelines

HARMONIES

Howard Bryant Lytle

((ECHO))SYSTEMS

FOREWORD
Quills and Pixels 2013 brings together a cacophony of sounds: a bubbling
water fountain, whipping helicopter blades, the crackling of a dry field on
fire, a whirling tutu, the pounding of adrenaline, angry insects, a loved one
lending an ear, the wailing of conscience, the voice of a bullied child, the harmony of team work, the whiff of a flying dart, pounding hearts, painful notes
of sickness, quiet after disaster, innocence lost, injustice inflicted, screaming
tires and breaking glass, crying, laughter, the loud-ringing emptiness of places
where voices cannot be heard, the earth as it whispers its cycles of sowing and
reaping.
Inside these sounds are stories that emerge, escape, circle away, and then
return, transformed by telling and hearing into a symphony of experience.
Each tale adds its own peculiar notes, its chords and progressions to the
rich and rhythmic whole, bringing beauty and wonder, even to lifes hardest
movements.
In (Silences), we hear that speaking up isnt always about volume. We keep
silent by choice or by oppression; our voices are muffled, or we are unable to
speak at all. We endure silences or hold up our hands up when no one else
will ask necessary questions. We speak truth to the powerful and discover that
breaking silence can be the most profound act of bravery.
Then begins a soft, steady drumming. Love and family, departure and return,
gain and loss are the (Heart)(beats) that measure our days and regulate their
rhythms. Loud crashes and shattering glass, soft purrs, long pauses, sweet
cries from a newborn. These are the beats we know most intimately, and they
resonate the longest, from the instant we begin to the moment we end.
Too soon, soft beats become (W)ailings, whimpers from the bathroom floor,
growling stomachs, a retina tearing, whispered prayers, medevac blades cutting the sky to pieces, bodies fading and falling. And then come the deep,

persistent tones of hope, a plan for the future,

and the miracle of a perfect new beginning.
Folding well-worn perspectives into fresh ones,
Harmonies make sense of dissonance. From our
radios, our barrooms, our toy boxes, and even
our shoe racks they arise. We hear reverb notes
from a Stratocaster, honest belly laughs, the loud
collaboration of competition, the push/pull of
now and then. We marvel at the dance of surfer
and wave and songwriters chord creating west
coast culture.
((Echo))systems come back to us, floating on
memory and argument like grace notes scattered
across a never-ending concert in a place we have
always known. We hear the sounds of childhood
echoed in the limbs of a crooked tree, the everfashionable re-iteration of impossible plastic
girls, voices from the valley echoing again and
again across popular culture, and the annual
song of sun, seed, and soil in praise of things
that grow.

QUILLS & PIXELS 2013

PRODUCTION STAFF
Tara Adams
Chuck Anderson
Elizabeth Bostwick
Jennifer Ellis
Jade Fitch

As the editors of Quills and Pixels 2013, we

are pleased to bring you these many sounds
crescendos and silences, high notes and low
notes, electric riffs, and soft, acoustic beats. They
are the sounds of all creation. Lean in and listen
to the song of life itself.

Emily Goza
Darricka Malone
Bethany May
Michael David Measel
Bianca Pollard
Jennika Smith
Jasmine Williams

(W)AILINGS

III
(W)AILINGS

That Sick for That Long

Deana Nall

The Walker in the Bright Pink Hat

Mary Stuart

A Healthy Fear of Wasps

Heather Hailie

Survivor
Ian Bennett

Life with Glaucoma

Bobby Coleman

THAT SICK FOR

THAT LONG
Deana Nall

Crumpled in a heap on the bathroom floor, I decided

to just stay there. Crawling back to bed would require
a bigger effort than I was willing to make. I slowly rose
up on one elbow and reached an emaciated arm up to
the bathroom counter. A streetlight through the window
illuminated the brown, yellow, and purple bruises along
the inside of my arm. I must look like an anorexic junkie, I
thought. I felt around on the counter, located the ponytail
holder I was looking for, and tied my hair back before
dropping to the floor with a thud.

2
I had gotten pregnant. Thats all I had done.
Just a few weeks earlier, I had stumbled out of the bathroom holding a pregnancy test that showed an unexpected extra line. I couldnt say the word pregnant; it was too
unrealtoo unbelievable. So I stammered to Chad, my
husband of five years,
Honey, I think you knocked me up.
I was a healthy twenty-six year old with a fun job coordinating alumni events at a university while Chad worked
on his ministry degree at seminary. We had meant to wait
until he had graduated to start our family. But it was happening now. That was OK. We were elated.

77

(w)ailings

Deana Nall

When you are newly pregnant and overjoyed about your

condition, the symptoms of pregnancy are greeted with
near-giddiness because they serve as confirmation that
the pregnancy is truly happening. My period had disappeared, so I gleefully threw boxes of tampons into the
back of the bathroom closet. Wouldnt need those for a
while! Coffee and toothpaste began to smell funny. Because I was pregnant! I started feeling queasy. Because I
was pregnant! When I threw up one Thursday evening, I
proudly told my husband,
I just threw up because Im pregnant! Isnt that cute?
Life can have a way of taking joy and crushing it to dust.
When I threw up that Thursday night, something began that neither Chad nor I saw coming. Something that
would strip everything away from me and leave me nearly dead. I would never be the same.
The next morning, I woke up and kept vomiting. It never
stopped that day, or that night, or the next day. Every half
hour or so, I threw up. Even when there was nothing to
throw up.

LIFE CAN HAVE A WAY OF TAKING

JOY AND CRUSHING IT TO DUST.
I tried to go to work the next week, but there was no
restroom on my floor. I would stay only a few hours and
come home. My doctor said nausea and vomiting were
normal in pregnancy, but he was concerned about how
badly I had dehydrated. Even one sip of water would

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That Sick for That Long

(w)ailings

come right back up. He admitted me to the hospital for

IV fluids and Phenergan, a strong tranquilizer. The vomiting seemed to let up, and I was sent home.
I had been there a few hours when the sickness came back
with a vengeance. Then I remembered something. In one
of my pregnancy books, I had read a short paragraph
about a pregnancy complication called hyperemesis gravidarum. Thats the name given to morning sickness
when it escalates to life-threatening levels. Other than IV
therapy and tranquilizers, not much could be done for
this condition at the time. The paragraph ended with the
reassurance that this condition is extremely rare.
Surely this was not happening to me. Surely the vomiting would stop at any moment, and I could start eating again, going to work, and having a healthy, normal
pregnancy. My life had become a miserable succession
of vomiting for days, going to the hospital and getting
rehydrated, and returning home to start vomiting again.
I missed more worksometimes days at a time. The
weeks turned into months. I was a prisoner inside my
own body. I was so weak that getting out of bed required
monumental effort. And there was no escape from the
unrelenting nausea and vomiting.
My pregnant friends were wearing cute maternity clothes
and picking out colors for their nurseries while I wasted away on the bathroom floor, so sick I wanted to die.
Chad was at a loss. This had blindsided both of us, but
he did everything he could to take care of me. I was too
weak to stand in the shower; so he would get in with me
so I could lean against him.
I began praying for God to either let me miscarry or to let
me die in my sleep so I wouldnt have to wake up in the
morning and face another day of vomiting.

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(w)ailings

Deana Nall

My doctor had never seen anyone so sick and did not

know what to do with me. My weight dropped. I had
started the pregnancy at 133, which was a healthy weight
for someone with my height and frame. As my weight
plummeted into the 120s, and then below 110, my doctor became exasperated with me.
You really could stop this if you tried, he said. I believe
at least half of this is in your head.
Why would anyone choose to live this way if they had any
control over it at all? I had been healthy and active before
this happened. Did he think I enjoyed being this ill? My
weight neared 100, and I hadnt weighed 100 since junior
high.
If it gets below 100, we may need to consider terminating this pregnancy, my doctor said.
On September 19, I threw up for the last time. I had
thrown up for fifteen weeks, missed two months of
work, been hospitalized seven times, and lost thirty-five
poundsmore than a quarter of my body weight. I slowly began eating again and eventually gained my weight
back, plus some pregnancy weight. On January 19, I gave
birth to a baby girl who was and has always been in perfect health. I will never know how she was not harmed
by that pregnancy.

2
When youre that sick for that long, you change. When
youre that sick for that long, abortion stops being something to vote against and becomes something that could
have saved your life.

80

That Sick for That Long

(w)ailings

When your daughter is five years old and gives you a

flowerpot with her handprint on it for Mothers Day,
or when shes twelve and the two of you are laughing at
YouTube videos together, a haunting voice in the back of
your mind reminds you that you once considered ending her life to save yours. Thats what hyperemesis does.
It steals your joy and tears it to pieces, and once youve
wrestled that joy back and pieced it together, its not the
same.
And thats something a mother can never reconcile.

81

THE WALKER IN THE

BRIGHT PINK HAT
Mary Stuart

I was a real estate broker/owner, and had listed a piece of

property in rural Pulaski County. In August of 2009, I
had someone interested in seeing the view of the property
from the top of the ridge. Due to the steep slope of the
ridge, we literally had to pull ourselves up, hanging onto
one tree limb and then another, but once at the top, the
view was breathtaking.
We could see for miles, and standing in the center of an
incredible grove of trees, we could look straight up and
see beautiful blue sky and wispy white clouds floating.
The clients embraced and said this would be the perfect
place to have their dream home built. In the midst of
this euphoria, we encountered the wrong side of the law.
Five gunshots in our direction sent us scurrying down the
ridge. The gentleman grabbed his wifes hand, and they
slid down the ridge to the left, as their car was parked in
that direction. I started down the ridge to the right side
because that is where my vehicle was.
As I was praying that my clients had not been hit by
a bullet, my left leg slipped into a hole in the ground
that was thigh high. My whole torso was thrown on the
ground, and being critter crazed, I was frozen with fear
that there was a giant, poisonous snake at the bottom of
the hole. My mind was screaming, Something big made
this hole and its going to get me. I began shouting, Snake!
Snake!

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The Walker in the Bright Pink Hat

(w)ailings

Instead of using the brain I have and pointing my toes

down to get my foot out of the hole quickly, I began
dragging my foot and leg out of the hole, digging an even
bigger hole in the process. Once out, I was able to stand
straight and slide down the ridge. Reaching my clients
and finding that they were OK released the giant hand
clutching my heart. Naturally, as I would have done, they
did not purchase the property.
I went back to my office and called the sheriff and the
property owner. Wired from the whole experience, I was
itching all over. After three hours and sanity sinking in, I
realized that I was clawing at my right side waistline only.
Upon further investigation, I discovered three ticks stuck
to my waist. Having grown up around ticks, I carefully
removed them and went on about my business, giving
the ticks not another thought.
About the fifth day after this incident, I began feeling so
tired I could hardly keep going. By the tenth day, I was
walking like I had had three drinks too many, and by
the twelfth day, my eyes were doing whirly gigs. I had a
fever of 105 and could not stand on my legs, all the while
feeling as if I had been beaten. My bones ached like I had
forgotten to pay off a gambling debt, and a guy with a
baseball bat had been sent to remind me.
I would try to stand up, and my husband, who has had
two open heart surgeries, two defibrillators, hip replacement surgery, shoulder surgery, hand surgery three times;
has both abdominal and aortic aneurysms; and is not
supposed to lift more than 35 pounds, would try to get
me off the floor. I literally could not move my arms and
legs. I was like a jellyfish with no sting!
One night my husband chose to sleep in a different bedroom. Looking in on me before going to bed, he saw

83

(w)ailings

Mary Stuart

that I appeared to be in a deep sleep, the sleep in which

I had been for the better part of the previous weeks. The
problem came when I awoke at midnight and needed to
use the facilities. I tried to roll to the end of the bed and
had in my mind that I could balance by holding on to the
bedpost and get to the potty. Wrong, wrong, wrong! As
soon as I got to the end of the bed, off I slidright onto
the cold, hardwood floor. I tried pushing myself with my
feet and pulling myself with my arms but went nowhere.
I was a wet (yes I had urinated on myself ) blob on the
floor. My cries of Help mePLEASE HELP ME! fell
on ears too far away to hear. Wet, cold, smelly, I reached
up and pulled the end of the bedspread over me for
warmth.
The next morning, with help, I was back in bedin
the same condition I had been when lying on the floor.
Amazing how my self-respect had flown out the door!
With a headache so severe that I felt as if there were
flames between my skull and brain, I lay in bed praying
for the Lord to take me on home. When I realized that
He had not chosen this time, I finally got to my family
physician.
He immediately diagnosed my condition as Rocky
Mountain spotted fever, and I had never even thought
to mention the ticks. He told me he did not think I was
going to make it and wanted to put me into the hospital
to make me comfortable. I, being the stubborn person
I am, told him that if I was going to die, I was going to
die at home. Before I left the clinic, the doctor ordered
a complete blood panel, which confirmed his diagnosis.
My physical debilitation followed the information on the
disease to a T, confirming his diagnosis yet again. He immediately started me on a strong dosage of Doxycycline
antibiotic, the preferred treatment. I eventually had to

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The Walker in the Bright Pink Hat

Everyone thought I was going to die. My children said I

looked 101 years old and woke me from a stupor to insist
that I return to the doctor. He again confirmed the diagnosis, but my children did not believe he was right. They
were convinced I had had a stroke. The mental confusion
part of this illness made me so tired of lectures from those
who cared, that I was ready to get in the car, leave town,
and never look back. I would try to mutter sentences to
my husband and family, and while they seemed to make
perfect sense to me, they were slurred, garbled mishmash
to everyone else. I lost so much weight that I looked like
a walking skeleton, face all sunken in and hair falling out.

(w)ailings

take not only the Doxycycline but Tetracycline and then

back to the Doxycycline. This was one mean tick!

EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS GOING

TO DIE.
I will never forget the first day since the onset of the disease that I felt like I might survive after all. I had refused
food and had taken in only a minimum to drink for
weeks while suffering through high fever. On that day,
my husband came to me with an ice cold Coca-Cola with
a straw in it. He held it for me, and as I sipped through
the straw, I felt the cool coursing throughout my whole
body. Soon, I was able to eat scrambled eggs and grilled
cheese sandwiches, bringing me back to life.
Once I could wobble my legs, I tried to continue my real
estate business. I had to cancel listings, but was always
available by phone. When my eyes were not doing the
whirly gigs, I would drive to my office, and unable to

85

(w)ailings

Mary Stuart

walk in a straight line, I would put my shoulder against

the wall and follow it to the door. I desperately wanted to
keep going, but try as I might, there were more days than
not that I would simply lie on the floor with tears in my
eyes. This disease plays tricks with the mind. As soon as
I thought I was over it, SLAM, it came right back at me.

THE PROCESS OF BEATING THIS TICK

TOOK OVER THREE YEARS
I had to accept that I would no longer be able to continue
my business, and while Rocky Mountain spotted fever
was working to destroy my body, closing the business I
had fought and scratched to build destroyed my heart. I
had a complete meltdown and cried more tears than in
all the previous years of my life. I was depressed, sad, and
felt like a failure for letting my clients down. This disease
had robbed me of two years of my life and had taken my
livelihood. I worked very hard to overcome these feelings
and slowly climbed out of the dungeon into which I had
fallen.
The process of beating this tick took over three years, and
my doctors nurse was an angel-on-earth the whole time.
With my constant calls and repeated office visits, she never one time lost her patience with me and was always a
source of encouragement. Without my doctor, I would
not be alive today, as misdiagnosis or non-diagnosis leads
to death in many cases.
Rocky Mountain spotted fever is the most lethal of all
tick borne illnesses, and once in your system, it never leaves. According to The University of Arkansas for

86

The Walker in the Bright Pink Hat

(w)ailings

Medical Sciences website, the diagnosis is based on an

antibody titer, kidney function tests, platelet counts, a
prothrombin time test, a measurement of partial thromboplastin time, a urinalysis, and a red blood count. The
Mayo Clinics website lists the symptoms and effects of
the disease as heart, lung, or kidney failure or encephalitis. It describes the disease as a brain infection that can
lead to coma. The symptoms usually develop within two
to fourteen days after the tick bite. The actual symptoms
are as follows:
Chills and fever
Severe headache
Muscle pain
Mental confusion
Rash (about one third of infected people do not
get a rash at all)
Abnormal sensitivity to light
Diarrhea
Excessive thirst
Hallucinations
Loss of appetite
Nausea
Vomiting

During the time this tick disease was coursing through

my body, it took with it all of my muscle. One of my
children accused me of having an eating disorder due to
the vomiting and told me I needed to see a psychiatrist.
Nowadays, I wouldnt even get undressed in front of
God! Everything on me bags, sags, and wagsand I do
mean everything! I started drinking Boost each day and
began trying to rebuild the muscle that was torn down.
After two years of antibiotics, I determined that if I was
going to beat this thing, I had to get my head into the
game. I made up my mind that if the Lord did not want
me yet, I was going to be ME againthat same happy,

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(w)ailings

Mary Stuart

involved, and busy person I had been. It was going to be

a situation of mind over matter.
Prior to this battle, I was a successful business woman,
making a six-figure income for many years. Due to this
tick bite, the ensuing long battle to survive, and losing
my business, I have applied for over 100 jobs. Because of
my age and the fact that this disease attacks the central
nervous system, I have a tremor. I have been unsuccessful
in regaining employment, but giving up is just not in
my genes. I began writing a blog, MARYS RISE AND
SHINE, and have enrolled in college classes because I
am a firm believer that if you dont use it, you will lose
it. I consider age to be the bags, sags, and wags I now
wear, but OLD is a state of mind, and I will NEVER be
old. I will work again and have set eighty-eight as a decent age to consider retirement.
In the meantime, I am now up to a whopping four mile
walk/jog at least four days a week. I wear tall white socks
so I can see any critter on me and a bright pink hat so you
can see me coming. If you do see me, dont think, What a
silly willy. Think, There goes a success story.

88

A HEALTHY FEAR
OF WASPS
Heather Haile

Wasps, Im certain, are inherently evil insects. Now, I

know there are wasp enthusiasts out there who would
disagree with my bold assertion, but those people are obviously unstable and should be quarantined.
I realized that wasps were the spawn of Satan at a young
age. When I was four, a swarm of red wasps constructed a shoddy nest inside of the broken window next to
my bed. While I slept, that nest fell into my blankets. I
woke up screaming, kicking, and wailing because they
were all over me, stinging and biting and crawling with
their sharp little legs. I probably would have died from
all the stings if my uncle Curtis, who spent his nights
smoking and drinking Budweiser on our couch, hadnt
scooped me up and spat his chewed up cigarettes all over
the stings to draw out the poison.
I fought him at first, because I didnt know that tobacco
helps neutralize the acid in a wasps sting and reduce the
swelling. I simply thought he was spitting all over me
while I was experiencing the worst pain I had ever felt.
When he had finished spitting, he wiped off the tobacco
with a kitchen towel and picked out the stingers with
yellowed nails. Later, when I was done crying, he lay me
down on the couch and pressed his beer can against my
stings. In the end I was alive, covered in old man spit,
angry red welts, and the stench of fear.
And the little bastards were still in my bed.

89

(w)ailings

Heather Haile

I know this attack was not a personal vendetta against

me because my brother had a similar encounter not long
after my near death experience. One day, while innocently peering into an open pipe at the top of our rusty blue
swing-set, he was stung three times on the eyelid. Fortunately for him, I was there, and I knew exactly how
to handle the situation, thanks to Uncle Curtiss furious
tobacco spitting. Not so fortunately for him, however, I
didnt know it had to be tobacco spit for the medicine
to work, so I used what was available: I chewed up oak
leaves and spit them on his face. He screamed for thirty
minutes because he thought his eye was going to fall out.
I was then grounded for having the good sense to try to
save my brothers life, and I knew exactly who was to
blame: wasps.
Why do these flying terrorists even exist, I ask you? Surely there must be a purpose, some good deed that wasps
perform that allows them to contribute to the ecosystem.
But friends, I assure you that wasps have one purpose in
life, and it is a sinister one.
Wasps, dear people, exist to kill. A wasps entire purpose
in life is to breed and murder anything that encroaches
on its territory. The good people at National Geographic
state that wasps are a form of bio-control, or a natural
pesticide. What this means is that wasps are useful, but
only because they savagely murder other insects. This is
a serious problem. National Geographic researchers also
state that although the adult wasp on its own is only violent when provoked, a nest of wasps is a completely different story. In a nest, wasps are agitated and aggressive at
all times. Nest mentality makes wasps volatile at any hint
of movement or danger, which is exactly why my brother
and I were attacked. When a nesting wasp senses danger, it releases a stress pheromone, which causes the other
wasps to become an enraged cloud of stinging hatred. In

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A Healthy Fear of Wasps

At this point you may be asking yourself, so what? Wasps

are angry little kill-bots, but obviously theyre beneficial,
or they wouldnt be alive! Wrong.

(w)ailings

short, all that is between you and an angry swarm of pure

evil is a quick wave of your hand in the wrong direction.

Lets take a look at the cold, hard facts. According to pesticide researchers at the University of Minnesota, wasps
do not pollinate, even though they derive their nutrition
from nectar. Wasps even kill bees just so they can get at the
nectar. Wasps generate paralyzing venom in their stingers. Wasps do not consume the insects they kill. Wasp larvae are parasitic and horrifyingly, many species of adult
wasps will inject their prey with eggs and then wait for
the host insects body to explode, Alien style, during the
birth. Even the color of a wasp is a product of evolutions
valiant effort to scream Run! at other creatures.
What I am trying to tell you, my friends, is that wasps
are bullying, evil, parasitic killing machines. They have
an inherent and ruthless thirst for fear and mayhem, and
I believe we should all be afraid.
Works Cited

Hahn, Jeffery. Wasp and Bee Control. Diss. University

of Minnesota, 2009. Wasp and Bee Control.
University of Minnesota. Web. 05 Nov. 2012.
http://www.extension.umn.edu/distribution/
horticulture/DG3732.html.
Wasp: Hymenoptera. National Geographic. National
Geographic Magazine, n.d. Web. 05 Nov. 2012.
http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/
bugs/wasp/.

91

SURVIVOR
Ian Bennett

You look just like Michelle Pfeifer! Has anyone ever told
you that? the man yelled to her, while our family stood
huddled together, waiting to ride the Disney World roller
coaster.
Yes Ive heard that before. Thank you for the compliment, she replied.

2
Wake up! my sister shouted, hovering over my face,
pushing down on my shoulders.
Stop! Leave me alone!
Wake up! Dad and Granma took Mom to the hospital!
She passed out!
I drowsily rose from the couch to find everyone at the
house in a panic. My cousin was on her phone with her
mom. Moms best friend was on her phone with her husband. I stood in the kitchen next to my cousin as she
explained to my aunt what had happened.
According to her, Mom had said her head was itching
before she got up to get a refill of coffee. She stood up
from her chair on the back deck and walked toward the
French doors that led into the kitchen when, suddenly,
her legs buckled and she fell on her face. With a look of

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utter terror she turned to the group of women behind

her, who were stunned by the fall, and asked that they
wake my dad because she couldnt move her legs, and
something was wrong.
Dad had jumped out of bed and run to the back deck
where he found Mom. He lifted her up and brought her
to a kitchen chair where she asked him to pray for her.
Dad had prayed with the family gathered around her, all
except me, still asleep on the couch. Worried that the
ambulance would not arrive as quickly as he could drive
her to the hospital, Dad had scooped Mom from the
chair and whisked her away, out of the kitchen, through
the living room and the foyer, out the front door to the
driveway, and into his truck with Granma following right
behind.
Everything had changed in an instant, but I was determined that nothing was wrong with Mom.
She only fell, I thought. People fall all the time. Shell be
examined and brought home.
As Dads lead foot was in full gear to get her the local
hospital, Mom was concerned about her appearance.
She pulled down the sun visor mirror to inspect herself
and began to fluff her hair with her right hand as she
had done countless times before. Mom had never shaken
the self-consciousness she had developed as a child after
many years of being made fun of in class for wearing the
same dirty, holey pants every day and even being made
fun of by a teacher, who told her she was only pretty
enough to one day marry an ugly fellow classmate, who
suffered the same impoverished and abusive home life
mother had suffered.

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She was shocked to feel her arm begin to fall from her
bangs, down her face and into her lap. As she stared into
the mirror, she saw the right side of her mouth begin
to droop and her eyes begin to sink before she lost consciousness. Upon arrival at the emergency room, Mom
stopped breathing all together. She was hoisted onto a
gurney, an oxygen mask strapped to her face to keep her
alive long enough to make the helicopter ride to Little
Rock, which would have taken close to an hour by car or
ambulance.
We heard nothing from Dad or Granma for at least an
hour, until he called and spoke to my cousin. He told her
that his sister and niece would be coming to the house to
pick us up and take us to Baptist Hospital in Little Rock
where Mom had been airlifted. At that point, I knew the
situation was serious. But the only emergencies I understood were those I saw on TV shows, which always fit
into a thirty-minute time slot and ended happily.
My aunt and cousin were able to drive my brother, sister,
and me to Baptist just in time to meet Dad and Granma
in the waiting room for the OR. We were informed that
a CT scan had revealed a large mass in the frontal lobe
of the left side of Moms brain; the nationally renowned
brain surgeon who performed the operation would later
tell our family that it was the third largest blood clot he
had ever seen, and that he didnt know how she survived.
By this time an army of family members were dispatched
to Little Rock from the surrounding counties, Texas, and
North Carolina, with phone calls pouring in from family
in Moms childhood state, California, to give us the support we would need in the times to come. It was the first
time I saw Dad cry.

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We watched Moms slow recovery in the hospital as the

weeks crept by. The first time I saw her in the ICU only
hours after her surgery, she was still in a coma. She wasnt
the mother wed known all our lives. She was lying in
her hospital bed tilted upright just enough to support
the breathing tube suspended between her teeth, saliva
running from the limp, paralyzed right side of her of
her lips. Her hair was drenched with sweat, exposing the
shaven left front side of her head and the staples that held
together the three-inch incision. The only indication of
life was the constant beeping of her heart monitor and

SHE BECAME INCONSOLABLE

UPON REALIZING HER DILAPIDATED
CONDITION.
the unrelenting flailing of her left arm and leg. Mothers
Day, Moms birthday, and Fathers day, passed with Mom
in the same condition. The corkboard on the right wall
of the small ICU room was covered with holiday cards.
The blessed days after Mom woke from the coma were
the hardest. She became inconsolable upon realizing her
dilapidated condition. Moms appearance was always important to her. Being seen by the hospital staff and family,
regardless of the circumstance, was humiliating. Day to
day, Dad helped Mom to her wheel chair to take her to
the physical therapy floor of the hospital. She did her
best to apply some makeup and comb her hair over the
large bald spot around her incision, but most of the time
she became discouraged and started sobbing; we usually
joined her.

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She spent weeks in physical, occupational, and speech

therapy. Her most frustrating limitation was her speech.
She couldnt say or read a word. The way the doctor
described it, she could comprehend spoken words but
could not mentally compose communication in order to
write or vocalize.
Throughout the summer, Mom had to relearn the basic
functions of life. She was taught to walk in a way that
required her to lift her right leg at the hip and swing it
forward, and then use a cane to balance herself while she
stepped with her left foot. In occupational therapy, she
was even shown how to land on her back in the inevitable event of a fall. Though Mom was nowhere near her
former animation, she began to acquire a new mobility,
allowing her some of the independence she had lost.

WE WERE HAPPY THAT MOM WAS

HOME, BUT EVERYTHING WAS
DIFFERENT.
It was almost the end of July before Mom was released
from the hospital to come home. We packed Moms
room and made the rounds through the hospital with
her to say goodbye to the nurses and physical therapists
who were so compassionate and took such good care of
her those three months. We were happy that Mom was
home, but everything was different.

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Mom had always had difficulty sleeping at night and

usually watched TV until the early morning, but now
her insomnia was due to leg muscle spasms. It would
take muscle relaxers and heating pads to help her doze,
until the day the spasms stopped. She would also be afflicted with grand mal seizures, characterized by loss of
consciousness, convulsions, and muscle rigidity, now prevented with medication.

WE DEVELOPED PATIENCE FOR HER

FRUSTRATIONS.
Months turned into years, and Mom continued to adapt
to her restrictions and overcome new ailments resulting
from the injury. The pain she suffered from the contractions of her right hand and foot were alleviated with several surgeries to loosen involuntary grips and draws, and
she underwent different therapies to improve her mobility and speech.
Our family also learned to decipher Moms limited vocabulary and the broken sentence fragments she used
to convey needs or thoughts. We developed patience
for her frustrations. And through it all, she never once
abandoned her preference for being a home maker and
mother. We partnered with her on household chores and
making dinners, she and Dad never missed the events of
our extracurricular school activities, and although we had
to be very careful not to argue, Mom still scolded us for
underperformance in school and made clear her expectations of us for the future.

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Just a few years later, Mom and Dad took on the role
of grandparents with the arrival of my sisters baby boy
and, only months later, with my brothers baby boy. Now
with four grandchildren by my sister and brother, Mom
spends time between both houses visiting them and even
babysitting. She calls me every day, sometimes twice a
day, and almost every time I can hear the three oldest
boys, ages five, four, and three, yelling in the background,
drowning out Moms whisper.
Her social life is spent with only family now, but that
was always the most important aspect. She now feels that
only our family will understand who she is by seeing her
as the vibrant, active person she was before her brush
with death.
Mom recently rode with me to my new apartment in Little Rock, where I had moved to take another shot at college life. I wanted Mom to see my new home and a little
of what I experience outside of the smaller community I
came from. More specifically, I needed to pack for a road
trip with Mom and Dad to a family wedding in Michigan. I knew Dad could use the help driving, and Mom
would need someone who could relate to her, while he
spent time with the brothers and sisters he had not seen
in almost a year. I called my best friend and roommate
ahead of time so he was prepared for her company.
She held tight to the rail with her left hand, as I followed
slowly behind her up the stairs to my apartment. I led
her through the foyer and my front door, with her hand
clutched to my right arm, until we reached the couch,
where she had a seat. My roommate rushed from the
kitchen with a Bloody Mary for Mom.
How have you been Miss Bennett? he asked, enthusiastically beginning the conversation.

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I knew I could leave the room long enough to pack my

suitcase for our trip, because she would never have to say
much while sitting with him. Knowing her condition,
he was careful to avoid questions requiring a response of
more than yes or no. I trusted her to feel comfortable in
her own skin while in his care.
Mom sat very poised conscious of her posture. Her freshly cut, frosted hair was curled and styled as if she had just
left the beauty salon. Her makeup was perfectly applied
with just the right shades, chosen by her, to complement
her rosy skin tone and olive green eyes. She wore her dayto-day sandals, which fit to her right leg brace best; a pair
of mid-rise American Eagle boot-cut jeans; a pink, floral,
short-sleeve tunic top that tied in the back; and a white
tank under layer. She sculpted herself better every day
with her one working hand than most women of any age
can with both.
I finished packing and joined her and Kent in the living
room to visit while she finished her drink. We still had
several errands to run before our twelve-hour road trip to
Michigan the next day.
Are you ready to go, Mom? I asked patiently.
Yes honey, she answered softly.
I crouched just enough for her to grab my arm to pull
herself up. We both said our goodbyes to Kent. Mom
tilted her head and with a deep, soul touching expression,
she leaned in to hug his neck and said,
Thank you.
It was good to see you again Miss Bennett. You look just
like Michelle Pfeifer.

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LIFE WITH GLAUCOMA

Bobby Coleman

Glaucoma is a disease of the eye in which pressures within the eyeball damage the optic disc, impairing vision
and sometimes progressing to blindness. This is the eye
condition that I was born with on September 7, 1990.
My name is Bobby Coleman. I was born and raised in
New Orleans, also known as The Big Easy. Its called that
because its one of the easiest places to live. However, it
wasnt that easy for me. As a child, being nearly blind was
very challenging.
Until I was two years old, my parents didnt realize that
I was visually impaired. When I would bump into walls,
they thought I was just being goofy. They also ignored
the times when my face would practically be touching
my food in order for me to see what I was eating. Maybe
they thought I was smelling it. On one particular day, my
pre-school teacher noticed my actions and realized that
what I was doing was abnormal. When my mom came
to pick me up from pre-school, my teacher told her that
I couldnt return until I got my eyes checked by a doctor.
My mom didnt feel it was necessary, but for the sake of
me going to school, she took me anyway.
After a few long hours in the eye clinic, I was diagnosed
with Glaucoma. My doctor gave me a prescription for
some eye drops, which controlled my eye pressure, and
ordered me a pair of glasses so I could start to see close
to normal. However, he predicted that I would be totally
blind by the time I turned six years old, which was four

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years from then. My left eye was a lot weaker than my

right eye, so it would probably be the eye to go blind first.
Immediately, my mom started to panic.
How am I going to accommodate him? How will I be able
to communicate with him when he goes blind? were the
questions that constantly ran through her mind, she told
me years later.
My mom would frequently try her best to explain to me
how it would feel to be blind. She would tell me to do
things such as close my eyes and walk around. As a two
year old child, I thought walking around with my eyes
closed was fun. But the older I became, the more terrified
I grew at the thought of being blind someday. The way I
pictured it was like this: one morning I would wake up
and open my eyes to nothing but darkness. On top of being scared of losing my vision, I was afraid of every single
school day ahead of me.
By the time I entered the first grade, I started to encounter elementary school bullies. I was bullied for wearing
big glasses. Ironically, the one thing that was helping me
the most was also causing me both physical and emotional torture. The bullies would do things as cruel as take the
glasses off of my face and break them in half. On a good
day, they would just throw my glasses as far as they could.
As a result, I owned several pairs of glasses during that
one school year, including the pair I broke on my own.
The bullying became so bad that I was given the option
to just sit in my teachers classroom during recess and
lunch to prevent getting beat-up. Ive always found it
strange that my recess privileges were taken away as if
I was the suspect. I honestly wanted to go outside and
catch some fresh air during my recess break, but my mom
thought it would be safer to stay inside. On the bright

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Bobby Coleman

side, I was six years old, and the doctors predictions had
yet to come true.
The bullying continued until I became a third grader. As
expected, it was because of the same reason, my glasses. My big glasses were causing me bigger problems at
school. So, my mom decided it would be best if I just

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE,

SCHOOL SEEMED NORMAL.
started to wear contact lenses. Surprisingly, she was right.
My days of being bullied were over. For the first time in
my life, school seemed normal. I was no longer Steve
Eurkle or four-eyes. I mean, I didnt have any friends
either, but that was acceptable. As long as I wasnt getting
picked on anymore, I was fine. The rest of my third grade
year was a breeze. However, just as soon as I started to
think my school life was becoming perfect, fourth grade
rolled around.
In the fourth grade, work started to become more challenging to me. I took more time to solve math problems
and read passages than my fellow students. My lack of
vision, along with small print worksheets and books,
slowed me down even more. I became the slowest working student in class. Yet, my teacher acknowledged my
pace, and she knew exactly how to work with me.
Later that same year I had to take a state-wide test called
the Louisiana Educational Assessment Program (LEAP)
Test, which played a massive part in me being promoted
to the next grade level. This test had a time limit set on

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each section. And once time was up, the students could
no longer work on that section. I ended up not completing any section of the test and getting held back in the
fourth grade. The teachers were unaware that they could
request a test that was formatted in a larger font, extend
my time limit, and provide one-on-one assistance due to
my eye condition. My second year in the fourth grade, I
received these accommodations during the LEAP Test,
and ended up making a high score on it.
As the years passed, I started to gain more confidence in
my vision. It had been years since I was supposed to go
blind; still my vision was pretty much stable.
On one cold February afternoon of 2004, I was on my
way home from school riding the school bus. I was about

AS THE YEARS PASSED, I STARTED

TO GAIN MORE CONFIDENCE IN MY
VISION.
to reach my bus stop when, all of a sudden, a car crashed
into the back of the school bus. The impact made my
head jerk forward and hit the back of the seat I was sitting
behind. After my head hit the seat, I looked up to see
what happened. Everything seemed fine with me. After
eventually being dropped off at home, I continued my
day. When I woke up the next morning, a quarter of the
vision in my left eye was covered by a big yellow spot.
I was too scared to tell anyone about it. So I waited a few
days to see if it would go away. Apparently, waiting made

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Bobby Coleman

it worse. By the third day, the spot had turned purple

and took up about a third of the vision in my eye. Thats
when I decided to finally say something about it. After
being rushed to the E.R., I was told that my retina had
detached, and if I had waited one more day, I wouldve
lost the vision in my left eye.
That following day, I had a retina surgery. It was extremely successful. It even partially restored the vision in my
left eye, making my left eye not only better than my right
one, but also better than it had ever been. I was able to
stop wearing contact lenses in my left eye to correct my
vision. However, I still needed some adjustments to function in a sighted environment. A little over a year after
this big change in my vision, I failed the LEAP Test yet
again due to poor accommodations. As a result, I had to
repeat the eighth grade, putting me two years behind.
Eventually, my family moved to Little Rock, Arkansas,
because of Hurricane Katrina. There I completed the
eighth grade, but I started getting made fun of again
because I was the oldest person in my grade. So, in the
ninth grade, I dropped out of school. My mom did not
condone me being a dropout, but at the same time,
she didnt want me to have the same experience in high
school that Id had in elementary. We started looking for
other options. Through our search, we ran across The
Arkansas School for the Blind (ASB). The people there
kindly helped me get enrolled and told me that I had to
start the next school year. At first, I was against attending
the blind school, because I didnt consider myself blind.
I just couldnt see as well as other people. But, my mom
made me do it.
My first day at ASB, I hated it. In fact, I hated it for about
a month or so. I hated because it wasnt me. Everybody
was so dependent and was being treated like babies. Be-

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sides, I wasnt blind; therefore, I felt like I didnt need

their assistance. Then one day I asked myself: If I dont
need their assistance, then why am I seventeen years old in
the ninth grade? I failed because of my lack of assistance.
I eventually realized that I was exactly where I needed to
be. I was finally where I could have a better chance of
success.

IT WAS AS IF WE WERENT
ACCEPTED BY THE SIGHTED. BUT WE
ACCEPTED EACH OTHER.
I was around people who were just like me. We all had eye
problems, and because of our problems, people looked
at us differently. It was as if we werent accepted by the
sighted. But we accepted each other. I was also able to
work at my own pace in class, which finally allowed me
to bring my grades higher than ever. For the first time, I
made the honor roll. I even participated in sports such
as track, wrestling, cheerleading, and goal-ball. I also
became the student council president, the homecoming
king of 2009, and the senior class president during the
2010-2011 school year. This was the year I graduated as
well.
Currently, Im attending University of Arkansas at Little
Rock along with some of my friends from ASB. As a visually impaired student in college, things can get difficult.
Its not like ASB where the teachers automatically know
youre legally blind, so your work would automatically be
accommodated for you. I constantly have to remind my
professors about my accommodations. I am majoring in

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106

special education to pursue a career in teaching. I want to

be an example for students with eye problems. Surprisingly enough, I was able to obtain a drivers license so I
no longer have to depend on others for a ride. Recently, my vision has decreased just a little. And that scary
thought of one day waking up blind still haunts me every
so often. Thats why Im trying to experience as much in
life as possible in case that ever happens.