Incase you don’t know who I am, I’m Honey Austin, an eleven-year old brunette girl who lives in Lexington, Kentucky.

You might think I’m writing this to tell you about the latest ‘grade school’ gossip: crushes, school, losers, and the like. The truth is, I’m not the type that blurts out stuff and tells lies. Instead, I’m usually the subject of gossip in my school, and it’s very frustrating to be in my position, believe me. But I don’t want to talk about this now.

I just want to write about my story, a story that seems unbelievable but a lot of people out there all over the world are also caught up in a similar situation as mine. I’m just very lucky to have someone help my mom and me.

Okay, I guess I should start first from my birth.

I was born in the New York General Hospital on March 10, 1995. My dad and mom were pretty excited since they’ve been expecting a child for so long. My dad named me Honey, because he told me that I reminded him of my mom (my dad would usually call my mom ‘honey’ sometimes, I think it’s just the way how couples work) brunette hair (which at that time was very scarce and really short), hazel eyes, and the way I laugh sometimes.

Unfortunately, my parents’ joy was short-lived when the doctor reported that I had a Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. It meant the left side of my heart (the side which gets all the blood with oxygen from the lungs and pumps it out to the body) is underdeveloped and that blood won’t be able to flow properly through the left side of my heart.

The doctor recommended I have a heart transplant right away if they wanted me to live. They were very willing for me to have the transplant, knowing it’s the only way I could live, but my parents freaked out when they saw how much they would have to pay for the transplant.

Fortunately, some friends of dad’s in the army (he was around a year in the army at that time) donated money since they saw his desperate need and he had been kind and hardworking to them. In the end, my dad raised enough money for me to have the transplant.

I can’t really describe to you how it felt to have a heart transplant (since I was just a few days old at that time).


My mom and dad would usually tell people about my heart transplantation; that’s how I first knew about it.

“Your child seems pretty healthy.” they would say.

“Thank you so much, Honey actually had a heart transplant when she was a few days old.” my parents would tell them.

“Oh really?” they would ask, not truly convinced by what my parents said.

“Yes.” my parents would answer, then they would babble on and on about my Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.

I received a lot of attention because of this, and I actually liked it, but I had some downsides too.

I would go to the cardiologist every six months so they could check my heart. They also gave me a lot of medications.

As a child, of course, I was annoyed.

I always wondered why I wasn’t aloud to play outside with the other kids and why I had to take a lot of medicines. Sometimes I would even refuse to take my medicines.

I didn’t get it at that time and I felt like I was being punished for something I did not do.

Eventually, as I grew older, I learned all about it.

Music became a part of me at a young age.

When I was 3, I would usually join my dad in choir practice (he used to sing in the choir before joining the army). I usually enjoyed those trips going to choir practice. My dad would usually sit me in a chair at the front row of the auditorium of the church while my dad practiced with the other adults. He had a wonderful voice and I loved listening to him (as well as everyone else). The other choir members thought I would become a wonderful singer when I grew up because my dad was absolutely good in singing.

A year after, when I was four years old, my dad joined the army.

I told him I wanted to have a very unique musical instrument because I was interested in music. My dad agreed, and for Christmas, he bought me a genuine fife from Nova Scotia, Canada.

When I asked him how Nova Scotia was like, he told me it was a very beautiful place. He said Nova Scotia was very scenic and had a lot of excellent views of the ocean. At 4 years old, I wished I went with my dad on his excursion trips to Canada and Europe. I had that overwhelming feeling to ask him, but when I finally had the guts to tell him, he was away from home, fighting.

I remember asking my dad a week before my seventh birthday (which was on Feb. 2) if he could get me a flute for a birthday present.

I haven’t actually recalled why I wanted a flute but according to what my mom told me, I was reading a lot about fifes and I came upon this piece of information that stated some people would learn how to play the flute after learning how to play the fife. So I probably thought at that time that I just had to learn how to play the flute (well, I still have that passion to play the flute).

You might have guessed what he said in response, “No.”, but he promised to get me one that Christmas.

Unfortunately, he never gave me the flute.

That summer, four months after my birthday, my dad left to--- you might have guessed – go overseas to fight.

I didn’t know this would be very different, so I just said goodbye to him; I didn’t cry, I didn’t try to force him not to leave, I just said goodbye to him; not knowing this would be my last goodbye to him.

Four months later, on October, a soldier came to our apartment and told my mom my father was dead.

He went on and explained that he was riding with his fellow soldiers in a car when a bomb exploded, tearing the car into pieces as if it was just a piece of delicate tissue. They only found his burnt remains and cremated him. After that, his ashes were scattered in the Indian Ocean.

I was so devastated. I felt like I couldn’t live life anymore. My mom only worked as a waitress in a diner and she couldn’t possibly earn that enough for both of us… I also missed my dad so much. I missed the touch of his comforting hands, the warm smile on his handsome features, and the way he would cuddle me to bed when I was a kid. He was a kind-hearted and loving father and he didn’t deserve to die in a horrible way.

I cried the whole time in his funeral ceremony. I felt he didn’t deserve to die; he was too young to die. All of dad’s relatives, church friends, army associates, and even former classmates came to his funeral. Mom and I, as well as his other relatives and friends said something to the congregation about my dad: his outgoingness, his good sense of humor, his wonderful voice, the non-judgmental character that lay within him, and many more. I was so chocked up with emotion that the only thing I could say was that he was a good father and that I loved him so much.

Why did he have to die? The question still runs through my head and remains unanswered up to now. Why him? Why did he have to die in a horrible way? Why? Why? Why?