McQuade 1

Amanda C. McQuade
Ms. Yates
Pre-AP English
20 December 2016
Breathe
This was the night I would see my father cry. I have forgotten how to breathe. We drive,
for what seemed like hours, while minutes pass us by, hospital to hospital on a cold, stormy night
in Minneapolis. My father frantically changes lanes, the bright headlights of passing vehicles
blind my vision. My mother holds my hand, whispering something inaudible to me. I lay there
gasping like a beached fish. All I can remember, is the rain hitting the windshield, a hollow,
glassy sound.
Im very impressed with you, Amanda. Your singing has improved! You know these
scales. You just need an instrument! My music teachers hazel eyes were full of excitement as
she spoke after class ended.
A band instrument! her voice warbled with excitement, as she placed a flyer in my small
fingers with the bolded words Aspen Academy Symphonic Band in bold green letters across the
top.
I stared at the flyer for several seconds as my teacher spoke.
Since you have shown musical interest, I would love if you would join us. Tryouts are in a few
weeks She rambled.
Half-listening, I scanned the paper, reading through all the requirements. My eyes found
the dotted line on the bottom of the page with the bolded letters Parent Signature Required. No
way would mom and dad allow this to happen. I can barely belt a few notes, let alone playing

something such as a flute or a trombone for an hour every day. With a heavy, yet content, sigh I
waited for my enthusiastic teacher to finish.
Faking a smile, I reassured her with a soft voice, Ill think about it. and left the scene quickly
to the carpool lanes.
Bright lights meet my pupils again, to the white walls of a hospital room. A plastic mask
covers my nostrils and mouth, as I struggle to breathe in the misty substance they have hooked
up to me. Im breathing in the clouds. Its like heaven, right mom? I ask my mother across
from me, awaiting a reply. When no response follows, I realize that something has
happened.
A full week passed by, and the paper was lost beneath the clutter on my workspace. My
mind was corrupted on other things. Sitting at my desk, I reached for a plain sheet of paper to
doodle on. My pencil hardly scratched the surface of the white sheet, when I flipped it over, to
make sure it wasnt anything important. And after a week of burial, the sign up sheet arose like
the dancing zombies in Thriller. We meet again I thought, repressing a sigh. I dropped the pencil
to clatter on the floor, and crumpled the paper, tossing it to the garbage can, which it missed. I
lived in a city that was full of all kinds of music. Music was all around me. And there would be
no way I would be able to make music of my own. I barely survived the mile run test at school,
and it was difficult to survive summers. How would it be possible to play an instrument, if I
could barely breathe during a normal day?
There is a long, awkward pause as my father scribbles notes onto a bright yellow sticky
note. The doctors body language is directed to me, but my eyes dont leave the floor. I focus on
the texture of the floor, avoiding the eyes of dad, mom and the doctor. I tried to liberate myself
from the unfortunate reality in front of me, but there was nothing I was able to do.

I was met with a lot of reminders from my music teacher of of the sign up sheet sitting
crumpled on the floor next to my trash can. I often tried to push the thought of band out of my
head, but it always returned. I unwillingly pushed myself to pick up the crumpled sign up sheet,
and decided to read it over again. The paper loudly shuffled as I unfolded it. The print was hard
to see through all the creases, but as my eyes ran over the words over and over again, I knew I
had to tell my parents of my secret, long time ambition.
With a clean, non-crumpled copy of the form, I took a deep breath. I prayed silently to
God my parents would allow me to take the chance. Asthma was my Goliath, overpowering my
will to try. Like a great wave of dreams scattered before my eyes, I realized that what I had been
looking for was right before me. And to find happiness, I had to overcome my fears of rejection.
Do you see all of the fluid built up in the lungs right here? the Doctor outlines around
a photograph of the inside of my lungs.
With a heavy swallow, I reply with a nod, as I gazed upon the picture.
Is there anything we can do? my father questions, sorting through the medical papers.
We can give her medication to help with allergies, a rescue inhaler, and a daily inhaler to keep
her breathing regularly.
After moments of complete silence from both my mom and dad, the doctor advises my
parents to keep a journal, or log, of how my asthma has affected my day. But the tip of the
iceberg was the doctors next recommendation to the changes in my habits.
I would advise Amanda to avoid strenuous physical activity until she is able to control
her asthma.
I was not able to run and jump, like any other eight year old child could. My life depended on
medications and regulations. And for the first time, I felt powerless and weak.

Mom? Dad? I quietly stepped out of the shadows, and into their view. Mom, halfasleep on the couch, Dad in his chair.
Yes? Dad looked over at me, rectangular glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose. I
held the form behind my back, hidden from view.
What is that? Mom pointed to me.
She caught me.
My schools starting a band and. my voice dragged off, second guessing if this was a
good idea.
And? Dad impatiently inquired, annoyed by my delay.
I would like to try out! I blurted out, holding the paper in front of him. Dad looked up
at me, with a very serious expression and read the form out loud.
I dont have a problem with it, he told me. Mom takes the paper from my dad, and
reads over it once more.
Ive been thinking about this for a while, and I know dad used to play the saxophone
and maybe I would like to try an instrument too. I would like to play the flute., I included to the
statement. They looked at each other, then back to me.
Well, lets sign you up! Theres no harm in trying. my mom finally replied with the
click of a pen.
And after a successful tryouts week, on another rainy day, we went to go buy my flute,
with a beginner's book. The rain was no longer hollow, but almost rhythmic. It was the cleansing
kind of rain, as if it were a movie, and it was a new beginning.
Oxygen enters my lungs and I exhale. I refuse to end up hospitalized tonight, I pray.
Running my fingers across the silver keys, I scan the sheet music in front of me once more for

reassurance. I have practiced the music thousands of times before, yet at this present moment, I
could forget it all. Uncrossing my legs, I wait patiently for my conductor. Blocking out the noises
and various voices of clamoring parents before us, I keep the drumbeat in the back of my mind.
My conductor raises the baton, and like a toy soldier, I raise the cold metal to my lips. Millions
of eyes, staring at me and my fellow bandmates. Parents grasp for their phones and bulky
cameras, clamoring for a glimpse of their children in their awkward pre-teen glory.
And with a flick of the conductors wrist, we inhaled and began.
In this moment, nothing in the world could matter more. The burden of asthma, had
lifted off of my shoulders, and I was finally freed. And little did I know, the capabilities I had,
and the things I could do, that I never knew were possible. The powers of music are truly a
mystery, that released me. And I often think of the legacy I withheld at that tiny, little,
Minnesotan charter school. Like my idols have inspired me, I was able to inspire others, and
more kids have joined the band. Years after beginning the flute, I have never felt so alive with
asthma.
Mom turns to me, her eyebrows knit tightly together, while her mouth forms a worried,
small smile. Are you feeling a little better? she asked, eyes twinkling with hope. I nod, sleepy
from the medicine. I reply simply: I can breathe.