"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.