A Complication or Two
The rejection letter from my Ivy League school of choice was the first major obstacle I encountered in my grand 10-year plan. It was not the last. I was 17, and at the time quite certain that nothing would derail me from my grandiose future. I planned to achieve everything my parents expected, and more. The first step was supposed to have been attending my parents’ alma mater, graduating with honors, and then moving on to law school without pausing to let my peers—or competitors—catch me. To say that’s not how it went is a gross understatement.
Needing a distraction in my moment of crisis, I decided to pick up another couple of hours of volunteer service. I rode the subway to Tri-Valley Hospital with that rejection letter wrinkled in my right fist. I probably should have left it at home, but I couldn’t bring myself to put it down. I’d spent so many hours volunteering at Tri-Valley to build my community service résumé that the trek there felt like it was accomplished on autopilot rather than through any active involvement on my part.
Alma was a new volunteer that morning, and I felt grateful for her presence, though I suppose I really didn’t pay much attention to her. Mostly, I was relieved to have something to focus on, other than the big fat rejection letter swelling in my pocket. I showed Alma the volunteer wing, which was really just a room with a few lockers, a microwave, and a lot of large posters with rules and cautionary messages. She shadowed me on that shift, and together we delivered food trays, chatted with bed-ridden patients who didn’t have visitors that morning, and carried out a number of fairly tedious tasks. I forgot Alma’s name three times and had to apologize. It was a unique enough name that I shouldn’t have forgotten once, but the rejection letter was burning a hole in my pocket and apparently in my mind.
At lunch, Alma sat across from me, even though by then several other regular volunteers had arrived and offered to take her out for real food rather than subjecting her to the cafeteria fare. I can’t imagine how far gone I must have seemed to her, but I’ll never forget what she said as I prodded the chocolate mass parading as cake on my tray. “You must really love what you do here,” she said. “I can tell you care about this place and the patients we visited.”
Her words dug into me, primarily because I had never once stopped to consider whether I enjoyed my time at the hospital. Hundreds of food trays served, hundreds of patients visited, and still somehow the whole experience amounted to nothing more than a checkmark on the extensive list of what I needed to accomplish to achieve my goals. I did think about it then, as I finished my dessert. She wasn’t incorrect. A lot of people hate hospitals—the lights, the sterile smell, the undercurrent of urgency, illness, and tragedy. But I didn’t hate it at all. The fact that I was there that day proved more than anything else that I saw it as a comfortable place.
Alma and I ended up attending the same university. It wasn’t Ivy League, and I wasn’t pre-law. Freshman year, I decided to complete my undergraduate degree on an accelerated three-year plan. Although that three years stretched to four-and-a-half, when I graduated, my wife of two years, whose name I had not forgotten once since that first day at Tri-Valley, was by my side and expecting our first daughter. Medical school was its own unique challenge, especially after the twins came along halfway through. We purchased our first house the year they turned six, after I landed a residency at Tri-Valley. But we slept in a nearby hotel for the first two months of home ownership because of a burst pipe that flooded our bedrooms the week we moved in.
Looking back, I suppose my life started with that letter. I don’t think everything necessarily happens for a reason—there’s too much tragedy in the world for that. But there’s no doubt that some misfortunes turn into pivotal moments that can alter the course of a person’s life for the better. Alma and I have been together for 30 years now, and I still wonder what that other life—the one in which my letter said “congratulations”—might look like. I expect it would have been pretty grand, full of its own triumphs and pitfalls. My children are fresh to the adult world, and when I see their tears as plans go sideways, I like to imagine that someday they’ll sit where I am with people to love, hobbies to pursue, and maybe even a spare dollar in the bank.
What is the theme of “A Complication or Two”? How does the narrator develop the theme? Use evidence from the text to support your response. Your response should be at least one complete paragraph.

Question

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03-11-2022
English

Answered

A Complication or Two
The rejection letter from my Ivy League school of choice was the first major obstacle I encountered in my grand 10-year plan. It was not the last. I was 17, and at the time quite certain that nothing would derail me from my grandiose future. I planned to achieve everything my parents expected, and more. The first step was supposed to have been attending my parents’ alma mater, graduating with honors, and then moving on to law school without pausing to let my peers—or competitors—catch me. To say that’s not how it went is a gross understatement.
Needing a distraction in my moment of crisis, I decided to pick up another couple of hours of volunteer service. I rode the subway to Tri-Valley Hospital with that rejection letter wrinkled in my right fist. I probably should have left it at home, but I couldn’t bring myself to put it down. I’d spent so many hours volunteering at Tri-Valley to build my community service résumé that the trek there felt like it was accomplished on autopilot rather than through any active involvement on my part.
Alma was a new volunteer that morning, and I felt grateful for her presence, though I suppose I really didn’t pay much attention to her. Mostly, I was relieved to have something to focus on, other than the big fat rejection letter swelling in my pocket. I showed Alma the volunteer wing, which was really just a room with a few lockers, a microwave, and a lot of large posters with rules and cautionary messages. She shadowed me on that shift, and together we delivered food trays, chatted with bed-ridden patients who didn’t have visitors that morning, and carried out a number of fairly tedious tasks. I forgot Alma’s name three times and had to apologize. It was a unique enough name that I shouldn’t have forgotten once, but the rejection letter was burning a hole in my pocket and apparently in my mind.
At lunch, Alma sat across from me, even though by then several other regular volunteers had arrived and offered to take her out for real food rather than subjecting her to the cafeteria fare. I can’t imagine how far gone I must have seemed to her, but I’ll never forget what she said as I prodded the chocolate mass parading as cake on my tray. “You must really love what you do here,” she said. “I can tell you care about this place and the patients we visited.”
Her words dug into me, primarily because I had never once stopped to consider whether I enjoyed my time at the hospital. Hundreds of food trays served, hundreds of patients visited, and still somehow the whole experience amounted to nothing more than a checkmark on the extensive list of what I needed to accomplish to achieve my goals. I did think about it then, as I finished my dessert. She wasn’t incorrect. A lot of people hate hospitals—the lights, the sterile smell, the undercurrent of urgency, illness, and tragedy. But I didn’t hate it at all. The fact that I was there that day proved more than anything else that I saw it as a comfortable place.
Alma and I ended up attending the same university. It wasn’t Ivy League, and I wasn’t pre-law. Freshman year, I decided to complete my undergraduate degree on an accelerated three-year plan. Although that three years stretched to four-and-a-half, when I graduated, my wife of two years, whose name I had not forgotten once since that first day at Tri-Valley, was by my side and expecting our first daughter. Medical school was its own unique challenge, especially after the twins came along halfway through. We purchased our first house the year they turned six, after I landed a residency at Tri-Valley. But we slept in a nearby hotel for the first two months of home ownership because of a burst pipe that flooded our bedrooms the week we moved in.
Looking back, I suppose my life started with that letter. I don’t think everything necessarily happens for a reason—there’s too much tragedy in the world for that. But there’s no doubt that some misfortunes turn into pivotal moments that can alter the course of a person’s life for the better. Alma and I have been together for 30 years now, and I still wonder what that other life—the one in which my letter said “congratulations”—might look like. I expect it would have been pretty grand, full of its own triumphs and pitfalls. My children are fresh to the adult world, and when I see their tears as plans go sideways, I like to imagine that someday they’ll sit where I am with people to love, hobbies to pursue, and maybe even a spare dollar in the bank.
What is the theme of “A Complication or Two”? How does the narrator develop the theme? Use evidence from the text to support your response. Your response should be at least one complete paragraph.

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