Lauren Larson
Instructor: Ms. Ramona Cutrer
Course: English 101
Genre: Memoir
The pain in my stomach was overwhelming. I was recovering from having raced in a four-by-four hundred meter relay at a track meet in Walker, Louisiana. Awards were being called over the fuzzy speaker. I was waiting to see if I had won an award. Like an out-of-tune radio station, the names of the MVP runners crackled through the static across the stadium. I did not drink much water on that warm day in March and ran in four events. I did not just run. I sprinted to my full extent, knowing this was my last time to compete at the Parish Meet. I was a senior in high school, just shy of eighteen.
“Lauren, are you ready to leave?” asked my father who was beside me.
“No sir, can we please wait till the awards are done being called?”
“Well, I guess so.” My father had work the next morning, but the awards would not take much longer. Dad knew how important this meet was to me. I sat down, hoping that holding my knees to my chest would dim the pain. The stabbing feeling in my gut was continuously fading in and out. It felt like someone was tying and untying knots in my stomach. Soon the awards were finished. The placings of my events had not given me enough points to receive an “Outstanding Track” award at this meet. My father and I started the trek to his tall King Ranch truck to leave. In the end, I guess I did “leave it all on the track,” and my father was there to pick me back up.
I was trying my hardest to make it to my dad’s vehicle. He knew my stomach was bothering me and had his arm around my shoulder to guide me. All I wanted to do was lie in my bed and sleep the pain away. I wanted to hear the comforting thrum of the fan on my ceiling. Suddenly it hit me, the dizziness. I could not walk straight. Then, I could feel the bile creeping up my throat and I began to shake. My skin turned cool and clammy.
“Dad, I think I’m going to be sick,” I said before breaking away and attempting to get to the grass. My father suggested I go to the bathroom, but I knew that I would not have made it. Heck, I didn’t even make it to the grass! In the gravel parking lot, outside the track entrance, where all the people exiting could see me, I vomited. I felt so embarrassed that I did not look at any of the faces turned in my direction. I hated feeling completely exposed. I could not hide myself from all of the eyes, including those watching from a nearby van. I could hear its engine in my ear and smell its exhaust. Footsteps hit the gravel as someone approached me. It was my dad, who had quickly rushed to my side, shielding me from the peering eyes of people passing by. He kept his hand on my back as I wretched up my insides. Despite my father’s own squeamishness toward sickness, he stayed with me and endured the horrible gagging noise escaping from my throat. Finally, I was through with having to taste the foul acidic substance.
I could not move. I clung to my father’s shorts, rocking back and forth, whimpering. I still felt extremely dizzy and my stomach was angrier than a five year old throwing a temper tantrum because I had hacked up all that was left in it. My head was pounding.
“Lauren, please let me at least take you to a bathroom,” my father pleaded. I complied and shakily brought myself to a standing position. I took a few steps and told my dad that I honestly could not walk. I felt like toppling over with each step. I was also moving at point two miles per hour or, in other words, slow. My father swiftly lifted me in his arms and cradled me to his chest. I wrapped my arms around his neck in a feeble attempt to hold on. He ran as fast as he could with me to the nearest bathroom. It was locked. Next, my dad did the unexpected.
He turned, with me still in his arms, found the opening to the gate of the track, and ran across the grassy football field. I could not believe it! Here was my dad being a true hero! He was carrying me like a princess, though I am sure I did not look like one, across the football field. My dad, a forty-five year old man, ran with me, his full-grown teenage daughter, in his arms across that field. I could hear his uneven breathing and saw the grass passing by as I held my head down. I felt bad for him having to carry me and I knew he must have been hurting. I did not know what force compelled him that far. Perhaps it was God and his love for his daughter. When we reached the bathroom, I went and sat in a stall in case I threw up again. Then, I could hear my coach outside the bathroom.
At first, I did not know why the coach was outside the room or how he found out I was sick. I then realized he probably saw my dad run across the field with me, along with every other person still in the stands. I could not actually hear what my father and the coach were conversing about, but I could hear the resonance of their voices. My dad cracked the door.
“Can I come in, Lauren?”
I said, “yes.” I was the only person in there anyway.
He felt my forehead and said, “Try splashing some water on your face.” I did as he suggested. The water felt refreshing on my skin. My father then went out of the bathroom and came back with a bottle of water.
Soon after I drank the water, I was feeling better. I walked out of the bathroom and was met with the concerned faces of my coaches. I was flattered that they cared enough to make sure I was all right. I really was feeling better.
I told them I was, “All-good.” I had most likely pushed myself too hard and was dehydrated. After the coaches were assured, my father and I backtracked to the truck. This time I made it there “a-okay.” On the way back home we stopped at a gas station. I picked out a Gatorade and something small to eat from inside. I was a battery and once both energy sources were in my hands, my body began to be recharged with new strength. The whole ride home I replayed the scene of my father carrying me across the football field. I remembered feeling secure in his strong arms and the determination he had to make sure that his daughter got somewhere safe. I decided then and there that he was my hero.
