Betel Ali January 30 2013 Multimedia Writing and Rhetoric Mr. Jeff Bain-Conkin Personal Narrative Ring.Ring.

Ring, the telephone roars, echoing throughout the room. She looks across the room from her favorite burgundy sofa, cigarette in hand and the usual stoic expression plastered across her face. She glances towards the phone, giving it a scornful look as if it were a comprehending human being. RingRing.Ring the sound continues to resonate, filling the room with an unsettling aura. Her frustration visibly building, she lunges towards the phone, barely missing the sharp edge of the vintage mahogany coffee table strategically placed in front of the sofa. She swiftly grabs the handle, silencing the noise at once. What?! she yelled into one end of the phone, her voice cracks and she explodes into a deep revolting cough; the phone still closely pressed against the side of her face. She gathers herself quickly and silently listens to the voice on the other end of the line. The longer she listened the more she looked terrified, her face turned crimson and she looked as if she had aged ten years within those 38 seconds. Her hands shake slightly but her lips trembled uncontrollably. Is this really my mother expressing a range of emotions? Is this the same woman that reduces me into a tiny pebble with one side glance? She was defeated. For the first time in her life it seemed as if she had lost control. The first time I disobeyed my mother is the most vivid childhood memory I have. I remember the stern look on her face, as she hovered over me. What did you do?! she yelled as I scrambled to pick up the pieces of glass from the floor. I had broken her favorite vase and there was no escaping her rage. Since that day on, I learned how to maneuver around her emotions. My memories of her following that day revolve around her sitting on the same sofa smoking

Alpine menthol cigarettes. I cannot picture the house I grew up in without retreating to the empty blue packets scattered around the coffee table and ashtrays completely full of burnt yellow pieces of cigarettes she had inhaled throughout the course of the day. I watched as she deteriorated day by day. I watched as her frame shifted from healthy to frail, as her flawless face turned dark and grim. She was slowly transforming into someone else. I waited for the day she would realize that she was slowly killing herself. What was more terrifying was the thought that she was fully aware yet chose to not care. I did not know how to react or what to do as she stood there, clutching the phone, not saying a word. I walked over, mortified at the site of my mother afraid and troubled. Who was that on the phone? I asked, with a volume so low, she didnt care to respond. She put the handle on the table, completely indifferent to where she placed it. I slowly picked up the telephone and pressed it against my ear, my motions so calculated that it stirred no reaction out of her. I hear the repetitive beep and hang up the telephone. I still had no clue as to what the voice at the end of the line told my mother that made her recoil inwards. My stomach in knots, I place my hand on her shoulder, an action that was so foreign to the household. She shrugged away from my hand as if it were the most unnatural thing for me to comfort her. As I waited for her to continue to cry, she immediately gathered herself and reverted back to that stoic and stern composition she always wore. She returned back to the sofa and instantaneously lit another one of her cigarettes; staring into the distance and disregarding the whole incident. I run into my room, infuriated at the whole scene, still rattled by what I had just witnessed. I sat and reflected upon the entire event. I didnt know if it was appropriate to feel slightly excited. To know that my mother could be affected by something was a concept I could not yet grasp. It had to be monumental.

Days had passed since that phone call. Both my mother and I had returned to our old routines. I insisted in incorporating the incident into casual conversation but my mother was not much for interaction or emotional purging. After a day at school, I returned home to find my mother not on her sofa. I found it odd, but dismissed it from my thoughts right away. I aimlessly wondered around the living room and the kitchen until the unusual sound of the phone ringing filled the house, jolting me back to consciousness. I sprinted back to the living room and picked it up, relieved at the cease of the loud noise. The idea of the house not being completely quite was unsettling. The voice on the other end was calm and professional. Hello, I am calling from Dr. Brendons office I never understood how a few moments can overturn a persons entire life. As the receptionist continued to inform me on my mothers upcoming surgery and her different options with the time that is left, I felt the entire world collapsing all around me. The thought of my mother getting sick has crossed my mind before, in fact this was a moment I had fully prepared myself for, yet I felt my strength and preparation evaporate out of my body. Looking back to the day I lost my mother, I think back at all those hours we spent not talking or interacting. I wonder how and why she was the way she was. I cannot sit and convince myself I knew who my mother was. I cannot confidently state her likes or dislikes or whether or not she was happy. I walk into our home and stand stupefied at the fact, even silence is not the same. We all have our ways of loving one another, my mother and I just chose to do it in silence.