Creative Piece Inspired by "In Bed"

"Less Than a Wink"

The impressions you make on a person are not entirely those of a physical nature: a true friend doesn't stand by your side due to your looks, nor does a real romantic relationship thrive on beauty alone. First impressions start with the physical, and depending on the scenario, that quick glance could be the only interaction two people have. But there is an in-between: a colleague at work, or a student in your class. These are people who have interacted with you in more ways than a glance, yet less than a friend would. At this stage, the physical remains in play.

So, how does one deal with a twitch? The scene plays out the same every time. Working in a computer repair business, re-seating two sticks of RAM in the tower, and you look up. There's a co-worker doing the same. It could be a man or a woman, as neither gender makes the following any less awkward. A twitch, unstoppable and seemingly incurable, occurs: your right eye slams shut, producing the most violent winking animation that the co-worker has ever witnessed. What happens now? Do they think that you winked at them, or do they think that you want to hurt them? Surely there are labels running through their minds, ranging from creepy to psychotic, disturbed to insane.

My parents would never believe that the twitch was uncontrollable. Nothing I claimed to have actually existed: once, I offered the suggestion that I was depressed, to which they merely laughed at. They meant well in that they didn't want to believe that anything could be wrong with me. The same occurred when I brought up ADD. I can't exactly sit down and read a book, or study, without my mind wandering off permanently. It's a massive, unconquerable hindrance, perhaps fixable by medications, but my parents would never see me on them.

And so it was that I progressed through middle school and high school as the quiet, creepy kid. My fate was predetermined by a broken brain, and it's one that I can't explain to anybody because they don't understand enough to take it seriously. Instead, my parents (who are both in the medical field) write it off as laziness, and claim that it is simply my desire to slack off in life. They think me foolish, and unable to comprehend life's greatest challenges. My mother in particular believes that I lack the understanding to lead a fulfilling life, but that it can be fixed provided I simply "grow up" and leap headfirst into new-found responsibilities.

I admire her enthusiasm, and I want nothing more than to meet those expectations. I tell her that often, but she just shakes her head. If she knew the level of fear that consumes me every day, no matter where I am, she would certainly think differently. As it is, I'll continue to violently wink at those who I come in contact with. Maybe I'll get lucky, and people will realize it's a twitch. Or maybe, they'll wink back in some sort of silent understanding.

3 Essays from Short Takes

NOTE: The three essays are titled "Confessions" (88), "Bullet in My Neck" (318), and "The Big Nap" (322).

Life and death are perhaps the two heaviest topics that a writer can attempt to tackle. It likely does not surprise anyone that, in the realm of creative nonfiction, they tend to come up quite a bit. I have selected three essays from Short Takes that deal primarily with life and death, but beyond that, the feelings that they bring with them. I like to think they each tackle life and death in different ways, but are similar enough to the point where a trend in nonfiction writers is seen.

In “Confessions” by Amy Tan, her mother holds a knife to her neck after outright stating that she wishes that she would have died instead of her brother or father. Amy was clearly a victim of frequent abuse, and she grew up around death. Perhaps fittingly, she now has to worry about her own at the hands of the one person on the planet who is meant to defend you more than anyone else. The striking moment comes when her mom asks “Why you don’t cry?” We are treated to the inner thoughts of Amy, who is thinking “so what?” if she should die. She believed that she was at the point where no one would care, and in that moment, she primarily felt sad for her mother and the situation. This is certainly a unique view on death: being so used to it that you simply do not care if it should come and claim you.

In “Bullet in My Neck”, Gerald Stern has a bit more of a severe encounter with potential death. He is shot in the neck by a couple of teenagers while sitting at a red light in Newark, New Jersey. He states that “Everything in such a situation takes on a life of its own, and the few seconds it took me to realize I wasn’t going to die seemed like a much longer stretch of time, and though my neck swelled up and blood was pouring out, my only thought was the get out of there as quickly as possible.” Here, we see a strong desire to survive. Gerald’s survivor instincts kick in, and, despite the rapid blood loss and potential for panic, he is able to gather his thoughts quickly enough to know one true fact: he needed to get to a hospital quickly. This is in stark contrast to Amy’s essay, in which she is far more accepting of her fate. Gerald could have simply sat there, letting the blood pour, perhaps believing that there is nothing more he could do.

Finally, in “The Big Nap” by Michael Perry, we are given a completely different view on death. Instead of being the person about to be (almost) killed, we see an EMT’s opinion. For instance, in one scene he writes about, he has been called to an elderly woman’s assistance and was attempting to save her life while her crying husband watched on. He says “I wish we hadn’t been called at all. I wish he had simply put the phone down and held her hand as she died.” I don’t view this as evil or anything, as it’s basic human nature to not want to bear witness to such terrible moments in life. Even so, it’s interesting that an EMT, a person trained to see and deal with death on a daily basis, can still be moved by each experience as opposed to being desensitized.

I think this says a lot about creative nonfiction. It shows that what the common person may think to be the most obvious topic to write about may be one of the least obvious. That readers can be surprised by the turns an essay takes, and the massively different views that separate essays can present when dealing with the same theme. Life and death may be common elements of nonfiction essays, but they certainly do not have to all be about a relative dying and being sad about it, or any other common trope.

Suggested Essays During the Profile Essay (Lady Olga and Holiday)

In "Lady Olga," Joseph Mitchell gives us an incredibly descriptive profile on a bearded lady named Jane Barnell. I do really like that the first sentence draws a reader in with something unexpected ("Jane Barnell occasionally considers herself an outcast and feels that there is something vaguely shameful about the way she makes a living"), and that's one of the things I've been trying to focus on for my own revision. Jumping right into the conflict, or what makes the person interesting, is definitely the way to go as opposed to doing a standard, almost manufactured opening.

While there is a wealth of information here, I think that's what makes me dislike the piece. I'm sure it's good, but it certainly isn't for me. I much prefer profiles that use shorter bursts of sentences in an attempt to more hastily paint a better picture, if that makes sense. Even so, Mitchell puts his descriptive qualities to good use in describing her looks. He didn't simply stop at what he saw, but sometimes even included what other people saw, such as the line where Monty Woolley saw her once when she was dressed up and described her as Elsa Maxwell with a beard. That sort of description creates a fuller view of the person, which is something this piece has taught me that I need to do with my own essay in order to break the surface.

The "Holiday" essay was short and pretty wonderful: definitely more like the preferred type I was talking about earlier. I like how the writing seems to match the attitude of Joey, who seemed to be extremely hyper and fast-moving despite his disability. There isn't much to say here beyond the fact that most of it is based around scenes and stories, which is probably a reason this essay was suggested. I recall during workshop that I needed more stories interwoven in my own essay to help explain some things, and there is an excellent mix of profile and scene here. Most strikingly, though, is that final paragraph. It's short, but it feels like the whole mood changes. Joey was so excited to be part of this, and put everything into it, only for the reader to discover at the end he has no interest in performing because he doesn't like people watching him. Beyond that, he wants to become an accountant. There's something really special there, and I like it a lot, but I'm not sure I have the words to describe why. It just feels like the perfect ending.

Post 1900 Essay Annotation -- "My Face"

"Merely as an observer of natural phenomena, I am fascinated by own appearance."

The first line of Robert Benchley's essay "My Face" states something rather obvious about human nature: our level of caring for our own appearance. While his motives may have been a tad different in the early twentieth century, it's remarkable how true this remains in today's generation.

"Each day I look like someone, or something, different."

Benchley states shortly after this that he has no idea what he'll look like until he observes it in the mirror. While I don't believe he is a shape-shifter, and I'm sure there's some deeper meaning here, but I wonder if the combination of a tired mind and, perhaps, a mind that *wants* to see someone (or something) else in the mirror is what drives the phenomena. Then he mentions that the days he doesn't look like anything shocks him back into bed, which may further support the idea that he isn't entirely happy with who he is. However, he is attempting to take a shot at himself with a humorous undertone.

"In some pictures I look even worse than I had imagined."

Another classic scenario that holds true today. It's almost as though our brains are designed to think we look far worse in pictures than we think we will. But, maybe, that's simply because the concept of being entirely still is unnatural. The world is always moving, and that it is in that lifelike movement that we look our best as opposed to one still frame that can amplify our faults.

"My only hope is that, in this constant metamorphosis which seems to be going on, a winning number may come up sometime, if only for a day."

Talk about depressing. I think he's longing for the day that he can wake up, stagger over to the mirror in a sleepy haze, and see a person that he is truly proud to be. One that doesn't take the form of someone else that he may envy, but instead reflects himself as an individual, or a human being that has achieved a life he deems worth living.

"As a matter of fact, my upper lip is pretty fascinating by itself, in a bizarre sort of way."

It's a shame we didn't get a sequel entitled "My Upper Lip". It might have been wonderful, if a bit shorter. Still, it's good to know that he intends to try to keep his head up high as he goes day after day. It tells us that, at the time, he still had hope for himself, and wasn't quite ready to let the daily metamorphosis become a truly permanent phenomena.

The Great Divider

Everything newer than this post is being submitted as according to the portfolio requirement sheet. That's probably obvious, but I wanted it to be crystal clear (mostly for my own benefit -- I need to keep track of everything).

I'm so excited to get started. As of the current time, I cannot find my Short Takes book, which is the worst thing that could be happening right now. I hope it turns up.

"Men at Night" and "Love, Science, and Comics: The Nerdscapade"

Both "Men at Night" and "Love, Science, and Comics: The Nerdscapade" primarily revolve around a sense of uneasiness, but within each main character lies a bit of expectancy. David Huddle is ready to make his jump, while Alicia is sure that a relationship with this boy would never work out. In the end, Huddle is unexpectedly called back from the jump and Alicia finds that her potential relationship could totally work out (and it does).

I think the primary difference here is in how the author decides to handle that feeling of the unknown. With Huddle, he gives no hints up to the point of flat-out revealing that the plans have changed. This leads to a build-up of suspense, leaving the reader wondering what is going to happen when he makes that jump. In Alicia's essay, we are constantly given hints that the relationship works out ("even now I still joke about how he had to have somehow had ancestors that were trees" and "it was not by his family at all, they as a whole were and still are sweeter than a tall glass of southern-style sweet tea" come to mind). I think that's something Alicia could take from Huddle: the addition of suspense. Maybe lead us on to believe that there isn't exactly a happy ending.

Overall, my main point is that while I find Alicia's own anxiety and expectations to have been in place during the scenes expressed in the essay, I don't feel like it's completely passed on to the reader, and that's where she could take her essay next.

Rebecca Solnit

The passage on 248 is one that I'll maintain a love/hate relationship with. I can see where she's coming from, but at the same time, I hate to agree with it fully because she seems to be putting an insane level of importance on this idea of being other people (such as people who have never lived and strangers you’ve never met). It seems a bit (dare I say it) pretentious, I suppose.

As for its relevance to the book, I imagine that can be seen most prominently in her relationship with her mother. I personally had to witness the horror of my grandmother going through the terrible stages of Alzheimer's, and the caring-for process is one that would come to define a person. She seems to be acknowledging this as well right there in this passage, as she mentions “the forgettings and the misrememberings”. I guess in a way her mother had to sort of live through her as well. As the disease progressed, and her memory became far worse, what could she happen to know outside of Rebecca Solnit’s life? It would have to be her experiences that shaped her mother’s feelings and thoughts at the time.

I can entertain the notion that we, as the human race, do lead somewhat intertwined lives. It’s true that people you’ll never meet (or even hear of) can affect your life, after all.

Physical Description of Michael

Michael has a very college-like look about him. Standing tall at what I would say a little over six feet, he dresses well enough in clothes that fit perfectly and typically wears a baseball cap backwards. It's perfect, really, that he should look as he does. He tells me that he is a member of Ohio University's Student Senate, an organization I know so little about. But just the name should imply a certain look about him; one of professionalism and calmness. He manages to maintain this whether he be walking around campus or sitting in Alden, watching me scribble notes on whatever he says. Michael is able to sit motionless, a skill I admire, which is something that surprises me given the extra stress he must endure from being a student, working at his job and participating in numerous groups on campus.

He's built like an athlete, a form he says he acquired in high school. Even so, everything about his face says that he is one of the most friendly types of people you can meet. He has a long smile, not afraid to show off purely white teeth. His eyes squint up a little whenever he does so, and his forehead shifts forward a bit revealing a tiny amount of brownish-blond hair. His features scream the word 'charisma', which is a trait I imagine comes off as very important to him.

"The American Male at Age Ten"

The primary trait that makes this essay stand out to me is the relatively familiar childlike innocence that Susan Orlean manages to capture so brilliantly. When you're ten years old, it's easy to imagine marrying someone and leading a life of joy and prosperity. Something that is interesting is that she mixes adult language and childlike language in a unique manner. For example, in the first paragraph, she writes: "We wouldn't have sex, but we would have crushes on each other and, magically, babies would appear in our home." Obviously a ten year old is too young to be thinking about having/not having sex (or so we'd all like to hope, anyway), so we see her current self commenting alongside her child self, who believes that babies are a natural product of two people liking each other. Little details like that help give the essay character, and it keeps it from becoming too mundane and bogged down in its own potential innocence.

On the Spider

The spider descends from his web-in-progress, down from a two-piece light fixture on the ceiling of my basement. I have learned it over the past few days: how it moves, what it eats. It is terrifying, like a quick and concise nightmare that wastes no time creating a jump scare that leaves you shaking and sweating. The spider knows me as nothing more than a creature it cannot catch, yet I "know" it as a clear and present danger. The spider is often killed simply for being a spider, an attribute it cannot help. It is remarkable how easily we are able to stomp out an arachnid with no remorse. Perhaps even more remarkable is my aim with the Nerf gun that I use to take its life. We cannot share a room at any time. Not when he has that vantage point.

Response to Essays

Emily Free's "I Am Not A Vegetable" and Virginia Woolf's "The Death of the Moth" seem like they could work together fairly well. Emily's essay gives off repeated feelings of conflict and anxiety that occurs as a result of perhaps results from the over-analyzing of a situation. Woolf's does some of the same, especially in the beginning, as she says that those moths that fly during the day "are not properly to be called moths" because they don't "excite pleasant senses". She still admits that she notices the moths are content with their lives, however. It is the acute yet somewhat unusual attention to details that drive both essays.

"In Nebraska" Response

The opening of Ted Kooser's "In Nebraska" is stunning, characterized by unique and wonderful metaphors that provide the most accurate descriptions of the mundane one can imagine. For example, describing clouds as "dump wads of fabric torn from the hem of the mountains" evokes a feeling of mystery and awe-inspired wonder, perhaps reminiscent of an younger period in all of our lives relating to when a cloud very well could have been that piece of fabric torn from a mountain.

The description of the land itself also paints a vivid visual image of Nebraska. From the "scratches" in the ground caused by wagons to the grass not being able to hide the wear and tear of the harsh weather that occurs in the area. The contrast between new and old is also presented in a way that is as jarring to us, the readers, as it is to Kooser. He writes of almost ghastly scenes, such as how "the young mother was buries and left in a grave marked only by the seat of a broken chair". This, compared to common things we see today such as twelve-story banks and insurance agents with briefcases, has a great effect.

On South Bass

“I’m not climbing up those stairs,” Justin told me. It was mid-July, and we weren’t dressed for the heat.

“You silly bastard,” I replied. “You’re going up there. I want to see what everything looks like.”

We were on South Bass Island, visiting the small village of Put-in-Bay, Ohio. It was a place I hadn’t heard of until two days prior, but being that we were poised to be in the Cleveland-Sandusky region for a few days, I was definitely interested.

While my buddy Justin had already been there once (or twice; I don’t remember what he told me), I finally had convinced him to take the elevator up the Perry’s Victory and International Peace Memorial. After all, it’s the world’s largest Doric column, which means something, I suppose. His hesitance was brought on by a small few of three or so dollars that would be required to ascend. I must have spent ten minutes fishing around my pockets for quarters to help him out. He was already agitated because we made him pay for the rented golf cart we were driving around the island, so looking back, I guess I understand.

The ride up was awful. The elevator was tiny and packed with the most tourist-looking people on the planet. It smelled terrible too, some mix between the sweat and the elevator’s unique smell itself. A “park ranger”, as they called themselves, was on-board, spouting off facts about the Memorial itself.

Once at the top, you could see the whole island, which looked significantly smaller than it felt as we drove around. You could see mainland Ohio (it looked ugly compared to the island, in case you were wondering) and various other islands in every direction.

“Damn dude,” I said, turning to Justin. “I want to live here someday. It can’t be that expensive, right? What do you think? Few million for a house?”

He was preoccupied with another “park ranger” at the time.

“Do you have guns,” he asked.

“No, we’re not allowed to carry guns.” The ranger was visibly nervous.

“So I could hold everyone up here hostage, right,” he replied.

Everyone else (including myself, of course) thought it was funny, at least. The ranger sort of laughed it off, and I figured that he got this kind of thing all day, being that the island is a hot-spot for people our age.

After about ten minutes and numerous threats from Justin (“I’m going to throw this kid over the edge! If only you had a gun to stop me!”), we finally descended. He promptly raced out the back of the building, jumped in the golf cart and took off without me. And by took off without me, I mean that I jumped in front and he hit me with it.

We have plans to go back this summer. I’ll be sure to make him climb the stairs, ride the elevator and endure the suffering again. I think my excuse will be that I forgot exactly what it looks like.

Two Hot Weeks in August and Muskgrass Chara

Ryan Hoke’s “Two Hot Weeks in August” and Kathleen Dean Moore’s piece “Muskgrass Chara” go incredibly well together, so much so that it feels like a happy accident that we are tasked with reading both on the same day. The primary feeling at play here is the use of sensory description, which, while generally limited to smell in Moore’s piece, is still prevalent enough to make sensory feeling the main idea. Ryan delves into smell a bit in the beginning (“the smell of freshly cut grass welcomes you as you arrive”) but uses other senses to help the essay live up to its name. The feeling of the humidity and pain is especially prominent. I prefer Ryan’s due to him not only focusing on one sense but trying to include all of them in a way that isn’t immediately obvious.

Comparison

In looking at "Planet Unflinching" by Kelly Cherry and the unnamed essay by Camille Davis, I think that they work well together in terms of theme. I say this because in Camille's essay, we the have the issue of a father who is typically away from his home. In the first part of Cherry's essay, she remarks that through the use of cyberspace, the idea of an object being in two places at once is completely possible. I feel like these have a strong connection because I feel that, deep down, one of the primary wants of Camille's essay was for their father to be home, but it seems as though he cannot both work and fulfill his promise of being home at the same time. I guess the connection I drew here is that, in a way, it is possible, and deep down, we probably all have somewhere else we always want to be, even if we can't.

"The Lantern-Bearers" Response

In Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Lantern-Bearers", the primary metaphor seems to be the lanterns being used as a symbol for both happiness and pleasure. Stevenson writes of those who look at the boys who bear the lanterns: "To the eye of the observer they are wet and cold and drearily surrounded; but ask themselves, and they are in the heavens of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an ill-smelling lantern."

This is a juxtaposition to the character of Dancer, who Stevenson writes as someone who "had willingly forgone both comfort and consideration" and "the disdain of many pleasures." Dancer himself seems to be a bit of a representation of not just himself, but all of those people who after childhood have given up on taking pleasure in the small things in life.

Ultimately, I see the lantern being held under the overcoat as a metaphor for keeping close a sense of adventure and joy. They're not only letting any of it escape them, but they are not even daring to give it a chance to escape. The lantern is what distinguishes an active yet comforted mind from a dulled and irritated one.

Beyond Dislike

I hate the cold that bites through clothing on an early winter morning. The pain makes motivation a tough thing to achieve.

I hate the sound of the phone as I try to sleep. Sometimes it is never-ending and I wish I could smack the caller.

I hate the sound of a dog barking as I try to sleep. I can shush it as many times as I want, but it will just go back to barking within five minutes.

I hate the homophobe that places his or her own rights above other human beings.

I hate the racist that does the same.

I hate not having enough Coca-Cola to get through a weekend.

I hate the Facebook junkie who won't admit their problem.

I hate the Facebook user intent on expressing their "thoughts and prayers" in regard to every little disaster. Both thoughts and prayers are private, and you are only posting them to make others think highly of you. In the end, you crave each and every notification that says someone has 'liked' your status.

I hate the bug that crosses the boundaries I have set for us. We could have coexisted, but if it insists on charging me, it must die.

I hate the snow, but only when it interferes with my ability to go places I need to go.

You'll get this a lot, but I hate people. I don't inherently hate them for who they are or what they believe (that can come later). I hate them simply for being other people. The perfect world in which I can go about my tasks without interaction from the people in my town could never exist outside of my own imagination, and that alone is worth all of the hate.

"September" Response

Lia Purpura's piece "September" is both short and hard-hitting. Her comparison of the cat's structure to that of a stereotypical prehistoric animal is wonderful. She writes that she "found these bones in the shape of sleep, of full and open expectancy," which is a unique and powerful way to comment on how, no matter what, death can quickly sneak up on a living creature. I'm not sure I like the last two sentences, however. Calling the earth a "home receiving the body in, expecting it" sounds a bit too poetic for the rest of the piece. Overall, I think Purpura succeeds in what she is trying to do here. It's a firm reminder that death claimed living beings millions of years ago much the same as it does today.

Midnight

Typically, I’d never find myself speeding toward Athens near midnight unless I was late for a new movie. Yet, there I was: going eighty miles per hour in an attempt to reach the hospital on time. I knew that there was no benefit to getting there ten minutes earlier, nor a punishment for being ten minutes later, but when the adrenaline is pumping, every bit of logical thought regarding safety seems to leave your mind

Just an hour before, there was a chilling phone call. The girl I’d been together with for around two years (I'm still with her today, although it has been over four years now) was panicking. Her father had suffered a heart attack not even a full week prior, and he had apparently started convulsing on his bed before falling unconscious. She was begging me to help her, to tell her anything she could do to save him.

Obviously, I had no idea what to tell her. I ran the phone upstairs to my mother, who actually has experience in the medical field. I sat in the room adjacent on a couch, my mind racing. It was hard to believe that it was happening. The usual ideas went through my head: he’s probably going to die, she is going to be devastated for a while, and I’ll likely need to work twice as hard to keep her spirits up. My mom came in shaking her head. I knew what it meant.

The rest of the night, as they say, was a blur. I remember getting there just in time to see her running out the front doors of the hospital, crying, with a nurse chasing after her. I remember sitting on a curb at the end of the parking lot while she continuously repeated that this felt like a terrible dream. I’d like to say I did a proper job of comforting her, but for most of the night, I just sat there with her. I guess there wasn’t much else I could have done.

"In Wyoming" Response

Mark Spragg ties together the piece's formal elements with its literal elements in the very first line in saying "This place is violent, and it is raw." His writing as he describes the winds is very raw itself. He doesn't use elegant, long sentences tied together with a poetic diction. He keeps his sentences as short as possible in an effort to only include information that is relevant. Spragg's brief sentences seem to help tie in the feelings of the residents when the wind comes and goes as well. As quickly as the wind can come back, so can he write about it. The overall effect is that we, as readers, can attempt to feel the harshness of the sudden changes and the simplicity of the town.

Appendicitis Revisited

By the time the night of my surgery came around, I had already subjected myself to months of excruciating pain. Usually once a week, I would find myself confined to my bed, squirming around and clutching my gut, wishing I could simply ask what the hell I had eaten earlier. As far as I knew, it seemed as though my abdomen had adopted a set schedule of pain by which it dared not deter. It was the type of thing that makes you consult Google. It was early on that I decided that this was likely appendicitis due to how often it was happening.

The pain I was feeling was relentless. It came suddenly and it could never leave quickly enough. There were plenty of nights where I would have much rather been out and about as opposed to burying my face into a pillow, wanting to scream. The worst part of this repeating ordeal is that I simply let it happen. I’d occasionally tell my parents about the pain, but they would always shrug it off and blame it on my poor eating habits (regardless of what they think, Taco Bell and McDonald’s are totally worth the minor complications they tend to bring). I still don’t blame them for thinking the way they did. I’m sure if I had spent a few hours creating a large enough scene, they would have given in and started to believe me.

Eventually, they cracked. One night, when the pain was particularly bad, my father offered to drive me to the hospital. He’s a nurse, and a well-respected one at that. Naturally, it would have been smarter to listen to him. I declined initially, as I, much like everyone else, hate going to the hospital unless it is an absolute necessity. So, for a few more hours, I remained in my bed. By midnight, I was certain that someone was juggling chainsaws in my gut. A few yelps later and I found myself in the back of my dad's car as we sped through the night.

Personally, I like the way hospitals smell. I know that hospitals terrify many people, so I doubt that this is a common trait. It’s like walking into a massive latex glove. It’s therapeutic in a sense, as your brain has clearly associated the smell with receiving treatments for whatever ailment you have. While the classic hospital smell was present that night, the typical silence was pierced by a loud wailing in the distance. It wasn't a cry stemming from physical pain. It was far too deep, with plenty of effort being put behind it. Perhaps someone had just lost a loved one.

This wasn’t the sound I wanted to hear knowing that I would likely be sliced open before the sun came up. If anything, it was a sharp call back to the reality of the situation. Something was wrong with me, and if it truly was appendicitis, that would mean I’ve been allowing an inflamed appendix to sit inside of me for months. I knew the consequences of it bursting, yet I had been content enough lying in my bed waiting for it to happen. It’s incredible how stupid one can be.

The hours leading up to the surgery were a blur. I recall an older doctor doing an initial examination, followed by me being wheeled to numerous rooms to have a wide array of tests done. As time went by, and the drugs they were giving me began to take their full effects, I was definitely getting a tad loopy. One of my strongest memories is naming my IV line and actually carrying on a conversation with it. It was nice having company, but I’d never met someone so conceited.

As expected, the culprit was appendicitis. It was a good thing we had come in that particular night, because according to the doctor, it was likely only a few days from rupturing. This would have complicated things tremendously and could have easily resulted in a painful death.

At around six in the morning, I was finally being wheeled off to an operating room. My dad was walking alongside, telling me that my mom would be on her way as soon as her shift at work was over. Right before I went into an elevator, he leaned over to give me a hug. As cliché has it may sound, my father is a fairly tough guy. He’s a black belt in karate, an avid hunter and, in general, your typical manly-man. That’s why it was so alarming to see that look of concern in his eyes as he leaned in. We both knew that the surgery was extremely common and was usually nothing to worry about. Still, I’m not able to imagine the thoughts that were likely rushing through his head. It must be utterly terrifying to know your kid is about to go under the knife. I remember him telling me that I’d be okay, and that he would see me soon. Even in my drugged state, it was at this point I fully sensed the severity of the situation.

The last thing I remember seeing was how stunningly white the operating room was. I heard them say that they were going to put me under, and a few moments later I felt as though the Earth's gravity was attempting to destroy me. The feeling didn't last long, as my vision had begun to blur and any feeling of pain was beginning to fade away. I muttered a quick "good luck" to the surgeon, and fell asleep immediately after.

Mexico's Children

Richard Rodriguez does a wonderful job of tugging on the heartstrings in his essay. His piece is a callback to a time in the past that isn't so different from the present. The most powerful pieces, in my opinion, stem from the treatment of the children in school. Rodriguez makes it very clear that it didn't matter that the Mexican children would show up, make no friends and fail their tests. He states the people didn't care because "come November, they would be gone to some bright world that smelled like the cafeteria on Thursdays -- Bean Days." This thought process is all to common in our world. Yet, at the same time, Rodriguez makes it clear how proud some of them were. I thoroughly enjoyed that he used his father as an example of someone who kept his application for American citizenship secret as not to let anyone know he was "betraying" Mexico and "sinning" against memory. Rodriguez writes that one day, his father "slipped away," which evokes the image of a fleeting memory itself.

Appendicitis

By the time the night of my surgery came around, I had already subjected myself to months of excruciating pain. Usually once a week, I would find myself confined to my bed, squirming around and clutching my gut, wishing I could simply ask what the hell I had eaten earlier. As far as I knew, it seemed as though my abdomen had adopted a set schedule of pain by which it dared not deter. Still, I feel as though I knew something was wrong.

One night, when the pain was particularly bad, my father offered to drive me to the hospital. Being a nurse, it would have been wise to simply follow his advice. I declined initially, as I, much like everyone else, hate going to the hospital unless it is an absolute necessity. So, for a few more hours, I remained in my bed. By midnight, I was certain that someone was juggling chainsaws in my gut. A few yelps later and I found myself in the back of my dad's car as we sped through the night.

Personally, I like the way hospitals smell. You walk in and it just smacks you in the face. The thing about the smell is that it just feels therapeutic because you know that by the time you leave, something will have been done to remedy your condition. The classic hospital smell was intact that night, but the typical silence was pierced by a loud wailing in the distance. It wasn't a cry stemming from physical pain. It was far too deep, with plenty of effort being put behind it. Perhaps someone had just lost a loved one. Not the thought you want to have when you walk into a hospital, doubled over from pain.

The hours leading up to the surgery were a blur. I recall an older doctor doing an initial examination, followed by me being wheeled to numerous rooms to have a wide array of tests done. As the night went on, and the drugs they were giving me continued to take effect, I found a friend in my IV line. I had named it and we had many conversations that night.

As expected, the culprit was appendicitis, so at around six in the morning, I was finally being wheeled off to an operating room. The last thing I remember seeing was how stunningly white the room was. I heard them say that they were going to put me under, and a few moments later I felt as though the Earth's gravity was attempting to destroy me. The feeling didn't last long, as my vision had begun to blur and any feeling of pain was beginning to fade away. I muttered a quick "good luck" to the surgeon, and fell asleep immediately after.

"Moving Water, Tucson"

The primary idea behind this piece is a flash flood instilling awe and wonder into a group of kids. As the water approaches, a couple of wonderful descriptions of their senses are mentioned. For example, the notion of rain falling on one's face as it was "lifted to lick water from the sky" is an incredibly unique and powerful way to describe what would otherwise be read as a generic feeling. The excitement (though not necessarily a good kind of excitement) the kids are feeling as they hear the water in the distance is also brought up as they imagine the desert coming apart and the wildlife being cast aside by the flood. This is enhanced by the teenager who attempts to ride the flood on a piece of wood. Their desire to be part of something as powerful as a flood seemed to swell inside them. This was likely cut short, however, upon witnessing the logical fate of the boy.