My Idol

Thousands of years of civilization have witnessed the coming and going of many great names; among them we’ve seen King Solomon, the wisest king of all time, Zinedine Zidane, the outstanding football maestro, and Florence Nightingale, who revolutionized our mindsets on nurses, not to mention the rest who have left their mark on history. Now, everyone should have a person whom they look to when they call for inspiration; one that makes them dream, and consequently reach for their dreams. We call them our idols. Who is yours? Take a guess at mine.

Sit back and relax; enjoy this story.

When I was a child, I was a subject to much prejudice. I was fat. Some people might have been so kind to suggest that I was ‘chubby’ but no, I had to face reality. I was overweight. Obese. My so called friends laughed at me. The kids at the playground teased me and refused to play with me. They pulled my hair. They pinched my cheeks. The ‘Fatty’, they called me, bringing me to the brink of tears each and every time they did this. I was only a ten year-old; what did I do to deserve such treatment from them!?

Every time they pointed at me, pulled my hair, chanting the sobriquet they gave me as well, I would run home straightaway. I would hide in the darkest corner of my house and weep uncontrollably, until her warm and gentle hands wrapped around my shoulders. She would then pull me into a tight hug, stroking my head at the same time and whisper, ‘sweetheart, it’s alright.’

It was just a simple act, yet it was enough to make me stop crying. Yes, my mother has been the pillar of my strength since I was a little girl. She taught me that clothes do not make the man; a person’s appearance does not foreshow his abilities. She taught me to climb up where I fell, and hold my head up high, just to prove the critics wrong.

In the few years that followed, I began to observe mum more. Even though she was often busy with housework, she nevertheless did her utmost best to give us, her family, the best. When I was sick, she was there beside me. When I was hungry, I could always look forward to a hot meal on the table. When I was down, she was there to lend me her shoulder. She was the best mother ever, a devoted wife and a dutiful one.

Alas, this is not Hollywood. This is a small town, where good endings never occur. I took her for granted and abused the care she had for me. I screamed and shrieked and shouted at her, but she never once lost her temper towards me. Instead, she just hugged me tight until my tantrums subsided. I didn’t notice that she was getting more and more fragile. She got weaker and weaker by the day until one day; she collapsed in the living room.

The doctor diagnosed her as a patient of third stage leukemia. I was too young to know what leukemia was, but I could see her getting frailer. And that was a torture I could not describe with words. It was like being crucified on a burning cross; or being hit time and again by a spiked bludgeon. I began to surf the internet, to find ways for her cure as she lay fragile in the hospital.

She passed away on a cold and chilly morning. I was fifteen. Her parting words were, ‘Samantha, I’m sorry mummy couldn’t accompany you anymore. Be a good girl, and listen to daddy. Maybe you weren’t in time to cure mummy, but do amass enough knowledge, and save more people in the future, alright?’

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

In all honesty, despite the legions of great people whose stories inspired millions to bring out the very best in them, she was the one who provided me with the spark that ignited my passion to become a doctor. Being such a dutiful mother to me, her memory was the most vital asset on my obstacle-filled journey to achieve my goal. She was the foundation of my motivation, the source of my power and the fuel of my spirit. In the face of impediments, the memory of her was the only thing with the ability to generate my fortitude when I look directly at the jaws of defeat.

She is the force behind me; my strength. The one who guided me; my mentor – my idol.