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Lessons learned from writing a personal narrative
Lessons learned from writing a personal narrative
Writing a story about my self personal narrative
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I was about ten years old and in the fifth grade. My mother had just picked me up from school that day and had bought me some delicious popcorn. I could not wait to get home to pop my popcorn, and we lived all the way in Rose Hill, Alabama. I was getting pretty restless by the time we got home.
So we got home and I went directly to the big, black microwave. I put it in, and began pressing the buttons. It was popping and popping, and the buttery smell was getting to me. My mother said that she had to go to the bathroom for a second and that I was not to take out the popcorn until she got back.
Time drug slowly by as I was waiting and waiting, growing more and more impatient. The anticipation was more than I could stand, I disobeyed and got the popcorn out anyway. I opened the popcorn very slowly. The steam came gushing out and burnt the tips of my fingers, face, and neck. I quickly dropped the popcorn. It hit the floor and went everywhere. I quickly began to eat the popcorn and decided I needed to put it all in a bowl.
I searched for a bowl, and the best I could find was on the very top shelf of the cabinet. I opened the bottom cabinet door and slowly climbed my way up the cabinet and onto the counter top. I reached the bowls and carefully lifted the two bowls that were on top of my bowl. I took my bowl down and arranged everything back in perfect order. I began thinking about the best way to get down. The best way down was the way I came up.
I carefully pulled the bottom cabinet door closed, and with my bowl in my hand, I jumped. I did not make it to the floor. My feet were oddly dangling and did not touch the floor. I had a sharp pain in the left side of my butt. The cabinet handle had gotten pushed through the bottom of my butt cheek. I called for my mother’s help and she told me to hold on for a second. She was still in the bathroom and thought a bee stung me. I put my hands on top of the counter and lifted and away from the cabinet. I ran as fast as I could towards the bathroom with a trail of bright red blood behind me.
As I picked up a cookie and blew on it, the hot chocolate chip on top got stuck on the tip of my fingers. I licked off the melted chocolate chip on my fingers and took a little bite into the rich soft chocolate chip to fully enjoy it. The smell of the chocolate chip cookies filled the air in the small kitchen then eventually escaped into the living room.
The sweat was dripping down my face as I pushed the weights off my chest. Everyone ran towards their bags after a student said there was a gun in school. Twitter was the first source that we checked just to make sure. Boom! The door slammed open as coach Ben yells “Hurry up and get out”. My heart started beating faster and faster. We didn’t know what was going on. As we were running to the gym everyone was panicking and pushing each other. I could feel the burn on my elbow but I didn’t know what it was. When we got to the gym my elbow was covered in blood. We were told to get down and stay quiet. Later on we were told a student brought a gun to school and was planning on committing suicide. That was one of many gun incidents at my high school.
I’m actually kind of shocked I could write about recovery because it is a topic with a special meaning to myself. But, I found it easier to write about my own experience with a negative event this time, and I believe it is because I grew as a writer. I saw the value the personal testimony adds to a piece, and thus I could add my own story.
This weekend I was paired up with a nurse from the floating pull. It was a very interesting experience. For the first time since the beginning of the semester I can say that I was faced with a lot of critical thinking situations. I spend the day running around reminding my nurse of things he forgot or task we had to finish. It was already 2:00 pm and I still hadn’t performed an assessment on a patient, at this point I remember what Mrs. McAdams had said before “ we are in the hospital to help but our main priority is to learn and practice our skills” so I made the critical-thinking decision to tell my nurse that I needed to at least complete an assessment and since we were about to discharged a patient I could performed a final assessment on him before going home. I performed my assessment, had time to document and helped my nurse with the discharged. This weekend was a very challenging clinical for me but I also learned a lot. I learned to managed my time better, be proactive in my clinical experience and I also found my voice.
Something as simple as taking a walk around the facility can prove to be a battle with patient X. From the day I met patient X it was noticeable that she was lacking her memory. Patient X could no longer tell me her name and everyday it would be different struggle, but for that day it was getting her out of bed to take a walk. From the moment I walked in and introduced myself, patient X could not provide me with her name. Patient X constantly asked if I was her baby, and when dealing with an Alzheimer patient, it’s always best to go along with what that patient is saying. As I got patient X up and out of bed, she started to become violent and resistant. Patient X took forty-five minutes to simply get out of bed and dressed, and that was the very beginning of the battle that would consist all day.
In the graphic novel, "Stitches: A Memoir” written by David Small, the author shares his memories, presenting a hostile home environment and the unique characteristics of his family. David’s family was composed of his mother, Betty, a housewife, Ed, the father-doctor, and David’s older brother, Ted. Towards the end of the book the readers are introduced to David’s psychologist, characterized in the book by a rabbit. The memoir is a true statement of David’s life in a house where there was no effective communication, the lack of love from his mother and how it affect his childhood.
I can see a crack of light coming from under the bathroom door. I keep hearing a strange sound, almost like a hurt puppy. As I walk closer, I see a dark puddle on the floor. Suddenly, I am very afraid. I slowly open the door. “Mommy, Mommy, are you ok?” My mother looked at me and cried, “Dial 911, Darling! Hurry, Honey, Hurry!” There is so much blood—on the floor, on her clothes, and on her hands. I can hear the sirens now. Mommy goes for a ride in the ambulance. My three day old baby brother and I have to stay with the neighbor until Daddy comes and picks us up. What happened to my mother?
It was after school. I had been dreading this moment since the moment i truly realized what was coming. The dread plagued my thoughts like a disease, and anxiety rushed through me like a surge of electricity and took charge like the light takes over the room. Focusing in class was a near impossible task, guess we’ll never know what we learned in math class that day. I would talk
I started wrestling in the seventh grade, and continued to wrestle in high school. I found wrestling to be a great sport to help me stay in shape, but also make great friends. Many of my friends in high school I made from the wrestling team. Everyone is very supportive of one another, through the many ups and downs wrestling has to offer. There are many injuries that one can suffer from such a rough sport. Many wrestlers end up getting injured during sometime of their wrestling career. My wrestling injury came when I was just a freshman on the wrestling team at Bishop Guertin. It was a time of much pain and recovery that I had to endure in order to make it back out on the wrestling mats. I was afraid and in a lot of pain when I got injured for the first time.
On a long car ride when I was about six year old, I created an entire imaginary world called “Little Laces”. To this day I am not quite sure how or why I came up with this alternate universe within my head, but it stuck. I spent at least a year explaining in great detail to my family members, teachers, and friends the inhabitants of “Little Laces”, and I wouldn’t just make things up on the spot. There was no question or challenge that I didn’t have a response for.There were definitive kingdoms, characters, and conflicts captured in some labyrinthine area of my brain that I --with the help of my parents-- would record with great detail into tiny notebooks and sheets of scrap paper. By the time I was ten years old, I had grown out of constantly
The time was ticking down on the score board and the nerves were starting to kick in. Every second it got closer to the game to start, the more my heart would beat. It felt like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. Then it finally happens, the score board alarm went off letting us know that it was time to start. My heart was beating a million miles per hour; I wanted to pass out. I couldn’t understand why I was so nervous? The pressure of being a returning starter doesn’t seem like a big deal, but a returning starter is supposed to be great. I didn’t know if I can be great, I didn’t want to let people down so I was going to do whatever it took, to make sure that wouldn’t happen. So I ran on to the field like nothing
In our lives we face multiple challenges. It makes you feel like tomorrow won’t come or that the sun won’t shine again. We wonder when the pain will stop or if the hardest days of our lives will be the last. At a very young age, my journey of hardest days were just about to start for me. This journey of mine began on the day I took my first breath on this beautiful earth. Seconds after that moment, life handed me my first challenge.
Let me just start out by saying that this is weird, mostly because I’m going to to attempt to write a story about my leg, which, let’s face it, isn’t that interesting. Granted I have to stand on it and I kind of depend on it for walking, but it is still just a leg. Even for a leg it kind of sucks at its job. For instance, last year around February I had to give this big speech (and by big I mean huge, like 1000 people huge) and I stood up in front of all these people and my leg just wouldn’t stop shaking. By shaking, I mean violently shivering from the relentless stares of people I didn’t know. At the time I was worried that I might fall over or trip, but luckily I spared my humiliation for another day. The thing I learned that day is not
It was Friday morning and I was in the 5th grade at the time. My father decided to pull both me and my brother out of school. My mother wasn’t home. She had already gone up to the hospital with my grandmother.
OUCH! My leg crippled with pain. I tried to shuffle my way to the window, but it was excruciating. As my senses kicked back in, I felt pains shooting up and down my body. Peering down at my hands I screamed. My hands were covered in cold, congealed blood.