Once again I was torn between two stories that I connected with. While I read Maya Angelou’s interpretation of what went on behind closed doors between her mother and the dentist in Momma, the Dentist, and Me; I could see her shaking that ignorant man and putting him in his place. As a mother, I could identify with her and at the same time with Ms. Angelou’s view of her. I could also envision the injustice prevalent in those days. Equally I could feel the pain in Dick Gregory’s Shame. This is the story I will be doing my journal on this week because although the first story was humorous to me, I felt the pangs of Mr. Gregory’s Shame.
“I never learned hate at home, or shame. I had to go to school for that.” This is a powerful statement and I believe it to be Mr. Gregory’s thesis. He sets the stage for his reasoning while telling the story of young love which just adds to his humiliation. Once again the injustice of the era is like a character in itself. He is deeply ashamed not only of his family dynamics, but also of the stigma placed upon him because of his race and the fact that he is on relief; financial aid perhaps the predecessor to todays welfare system.
The ideas in this writing, to me, were to highlight the ignorance of society at the time. When he is speaking of the teacher and her belief that he is simply stupid, he compares his situation to being pregnant. He uses this paragraph to drive home the way it feels to be hungry and poor. The teacher believes he is a trouble maker when in all reality he is just a product of his situation. “Teachers were never interested in finding out that you couldn’t concentrate because you were so hungry…” is a poignant line. It’s easy to dismiss someone based on the image that society projects on to them.
He learned a cold, hard lesson by living this moment in time. This writing could have a number of purposes. It is informative in that it gives a powerful example of how discrimination is damaging to people using his own very personal experience. It is reflective in that he learned powerful lessons in his youth that he turned into fuel for his activism as an adult. I also feel that this writing could serve a purpose in allowing people to experience through his words what the other side is like. To feel what poor is, what minority is, what disenfranchised is. His gives the reader the experience which could persuade the one to reflect on their own beliefs and actions.
The line that affected me the most was “we know you don’t have a Daddy.” The supporting lines that followed to drive home the heartache this young man felt were: “…I couldn’t see her too well because I was crying, too.” And “…the whole world heard the teacher that day, we all know you don’t have a Daddy.” I did not enjoy these lines. They struck a nerve in me and I felt my heart ache. My son’s father is not in his life and I dread the thought that someone may say something similar to him one day.
I thought the author conveyed the pain of a young man dealing with discrimination on many levels, in a way that the reader can experience it through his writing. He successfully demonstrated the way people simply dismissed the downtrodden or those who were of a different race, rather than look deeper to see the roots of the issue. It’s a story that makes you think twice about your own behavior.
Some new vocabulary : mackinaw: a short double-breasted wool coat.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Narrative : An Experience that Changed My Life
A Light in My Darkest Hour
I lay on the table with giant machinery hanging over my body. My panicked breathing giving away my fear. In the cold, sanitized room I felt as if this huge metal contraption might crush me, but it was all just my nerves. “This might pinch a little…” the technician said as a catheter was carefully placed in my arm slowly threading its way to a major blood vessel. I let out a small sigh, it didn’t hurt after all. It was called a PICC Line. This tiny tube was my life line. My battle was against Hyperemesis Gravidarum, a rare pregnancy related disease, which almost took my life and my unborn child’s.
For the next few months I would be fed through the PICC Line. They called it Total Parental Nutrition, TPN; it is a complex mix of nutrition and vitamins specific to my body. It looks like milk in an IV bag, and actually smells like sour milk. I was relieved to finally get some nutrition after months of nausea and vomiting to a debilitating extreme. The doctors explained that this was not a cure, just a band aid. I was going to be slowly weaned from the TPN over a period of time in hopes that I would be able to eat by then.
One morning I awoke and my neck was swollen. I tried ice which seemed to help the swelling but once I removed it the swelling returned and was spreading. I knew something was wrong. My home nurse was called to evaluate my condition. She promptly called an ambulance. The PICC Line had to be removed. I was disheartened as I watched them pull my only means of nutrition from my already burdened veins. It had not yet been a week and I was back to square one. I wondered if my child was going to make it, and I wondered if I would.
An ultrasound of my veins revealed numerous clots in the area of the PICC line which extended from my neck to half way to my elbow. The treatment was going to be hospitalization and blood thinners. The only blood thinner they could prescribe to me that would not pass to the baby was Lovenox. The Lovenox had to be injected into my stomach everyday for the next three to six months.
I dreaded when the time would roll around for my morning shot. I struggled daily with the needle. It was very painful. I never got it on the first try. I would pinch a fold of skin on my tender belly, hold my breath, and cry over and over in my mind “just do it Raynie”. The first tiny prick and I would chicken out. The second attempt and the cold, sharp needle would slice into my skin pushing into what lay beneath. A slight tug on the plunger, no blood. I could send that liquid into my body where some medical miracle would be performed. My stomach was littered with bruises in all stages of healing. I was running out of places to stick myself.
My trips to the emergency room were far from over. I was rushed by ambulance once again to the emergency room. I had begun having fainting spells. The doctor told me that my symptoms could be indicative of the clot breaking off and traveling to my lungs, a life threatening, pulmonary embolism. I felt as if in a dream state, or maybe just disbelief. Out of my cloud I heard him say the treatment would be by medication or surgery depending on the size of the clot, but… it could cause my death.
The doctor told me I would have to make a choice, because the test he would have to do to be sure would harm my baby. I felt a pain in my heart like a dagger had been thrust deep into me by his words. How can I choose? How could any mother choose? I said “I don’t want the test.” I was going to take a chance. I began to pray. My son was far enough along that if I died he would have a chance to survive. There was hope.
After extensively discussing my condition and my choice with my doctor and his colleagues I said “I want this baby, this baby was meant to be.” One of the doctors said “then we will do everything we can to help you bring this child into the world.”
I lived.
My prayer was answered. I got better slowly, just enough to keep me going, to get me to the end. There was a light at the end of that tunnel after all. His name is Zane, and he is worth everything I had to go through, everything we had to go through. He wanted to live, and I wanted to be his Mother. I am so thankful for this gift.
I lay on the table with giant machinery hanging over my body. My panicked breathing giving away my fear. In the cold, sanitized room I felt as if this huge metal contraption might crush me, but it was all just my nerves. “This might pinch a little…” the technician said as a catheter was carefully placed in my arm slowly threading its way to a major blood vessel. I let out a small sigh, it didn’t hurt after all. It was called a PICC Line. This tiny tube was my life line. My battle was against Hyperemesis Gravidarum, a rare pregnancy related disease, which almost took my life and my unborn child’s.
For the next few months I would be fed through the PICC Line. They called it Total Parental Nutrition, TPN; it is a complex mix of nutrition and vitamins specific to my body. It looks like milk in an IV bag, and actually smells like sour milk. I was relieved to finally get some nutrition after months of nausea and vomiting to a debilitating extreme. The doctors explained that this was not a cure, just a band aid. I was going to be slowly weaned from the TPN over a period of time in hopes that I would be able to eat by then.
One morning I awoke and my neck was swollen. I tried ice which seemed to help the swelling but once I removed it the swelling returned and was spreading. I knew something was wrong. My home nurse was called to evaluate my condition. She promptly called an ambulance. The PICC Line had to be removed. I was disheartened as I watched them pull my only means of nutrition from my already burdened veins. It had not yet been a week and I was back to square one. I wondered if my child was going to make it, and I wondered if I would.
An ultrasound of my veins revealed numerous clots in the area of the PICC line which extended from my neck to half way to my elbow. The treatment was going to be hospitalization and blood thinners. The only blood thinner they could prescribe to me that would not pass to the baby was Lovenox. The Lovenox had to be injected into my stomach everyday for the next three to six months.
I dreaded when the time would roll around for my morning shot. I struggled daily with the needle. It was very painful. I never got it on the first try. I would pinch a fold of skin on my tender belly, hold my breath, and cry over and over in my mind “just do it Raynie”. The first tiny prick and I would chicken out. The second attempt and the cold, sharp needle would slice into my skin pushing into what lay beneath. A slight tug on the plunger, no blood. I could send that liquid into my body where some medical miracle would be performed. My stomach was littered with bruises in all stages of healing. I was running out of places to stick myself.
My trips to the emergency room were far from over. I was rushed by ambulance once again to the emergency room. I had begun having fainting spells. The doctor told me that my symptoms could be indicative of the clot breaking off and traveling to my lungs, a life threatening, pulmonary embolism. I felt as if in a dream state, or maybe just disbelief. Out of my cloud I heard him say the treatment would be by medication or surgery depending on the size of the clot, but… it could cause my death.
The doctor told me I would have to make a choice, because the test he would have to do to be sure would harm my baby. I felt a pain in my heart like a dagger had been thrust deep into me by his words. How can I choose? How could any mother choose? I said “I don’t want the test.” I was going to take a chance. I began to pray. My son was far enough along that if I died he would have a chance to survive. There was hope.
After extensively discussing my condition and my choice with my doctor and his colleagues I said “I want this baby, this baby was meant to be.” One of the doctors said “then we will do everything we can to help you bring this child into the world.”
I lived.
My prayer was answered. I got better slowly, just enough to keep me going, to get me to the end. There was a light at the end of that tunnel after all. His name is Zane, and he is worth everything I had to go through, everything we had to go through. He wanted to live, and I wanted to be his Mother. I am so thankful for this gift.
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