Descriptive Essay On The Room In A Waiting Room

Why did my father die?” She held my hand. “Sometimes we think we should be able to know everything. But we can’t. We have to allow ourselves to see what there is to see, and we have to imagine.”

The documentary The Waiting Room is about a safety-net hospital located in Oakland, California. In the film, director Peter Nix follows patients, doctors, and staff throughout a typical day. Furthermore, the film displays how the staff is overworked, and how the American health care system is affecting millions of uninsured patients who try to cope with injury and disease. The film utilizes techniques from the observational mode such as long takes, crisis structure, and documenting unplanned everyday experiences to convey the cruel realities of Americans seeking hope and treatment.

It was early in the morning, and I had just woken up because I hear voices and objects being moved around in my grandma’s kitchen. I got up from the bed and made my way down the hallway straight to the kitchen. Once I entered the kitchen I saw all of my aunts with my grandma kneading the corn flour. I just stood there by the wooden door and watched as my aunts would laugh and talk to each other while the kneaded the corn flour. It was a beautiful sight to see because of the sunlight that was coming in from the window was hitting their faces and making it look like they were glowing. I started to look around the medium size room and saw the big dining table in the middle of the kitchen leaving little space to walk around properly.

The documentary The Waiting Room, is about a safety-net hospital called Highland Hospital located in Oakland, California. In the film, director Peter Nix follows patients, doctors, and staff all throughout a typical day at the hospital. Furthermore, the film displays how the staff is overworked, and how the American health care system is affecting millions of uninsured patients who try to cope with injury and disease. The film utilizes techniques from the observational mode like: long takes, crisis structure, and everyday experiences that unfold spontaneously to transmit the cruel realities of uninsured patients who go to Highland Hospital seeking hope and treatment.

When I woke up in the morning, my mom had left for work. My dad was singing in the kitchen, banging pots around. I got up, tiptoed down the hall, washed my face. A neatly wrapped present lay on the bathroom counter. It was addressed to me. I stuffed it into my robe pocket, and rushed back down the hall. Under the covers, I opened the package. On the first page of a small, leather notebook, an inscription read: to a writer, love your mother. I never wrote anything in the notebook. I could never think of anything good

“Right this way,” the nurse ahead of me was prompting me to a brightly lit hall that was completely foreign to me. I couldn’t help but be terrified by the sights and sounds around me: people chattering, machines methodically beeping, gurneys rushing past. It was my first time in a hospital and my eyes frantically searched each room looking for any trace of my father. She stopped suddenly and I turned to the bed in front of me but I could not comprehend what I saw. At such a young age, I idolized my father; I had never seen him so vulnerable. Seeing him laying in a hospital bed unconscious, surrounded by wires and tubes was like witnessing Superman encounter kryptonite. My dad’s car accident not only made him a quadriplegic, but also crippled

I walk down the stairs, surprised by the sight of all my family in my living room. Instantly, I'm wondering what's going on. Usually, no one is up at this time. I see everyone sitting down, and my dog Murphy laying there right in the middle of them all. I stare at my mom and I see the sadness in her face, but she's staying strong.

My mother had left my dad’s house slippers by the coat rack behind the door. I was grateful to her as the floor felt like ice. Hanging up my coat, I slipped into my dad’s bathrobe, which was hanging on its peg. We had a fireplace in the living room and the chimney exited the west side of the roof. I smelled the smoke of the dying fire, and I knew my mom was in bed. The bedrooms were located on the second story. Her room was located at the end of the hallway, and my room was at the head of the stairs above the

Lucy Honeychurch is a dynamic protagonist in A Room with a View and her voyage to Italy drastically changes her perspective about conforming to society. Lucy is from the English middle class, and her family sends her to Italy with her cousin Charlotte for a cultured experience to become more sophisticated and educated. This vacation is irregular; Lucy develops a romantic relationship with George, and she challenges her past judgements of English society. This vacation signifies the beginning of Lucy’s growth as an individual. The title A Room with a View states the progression of Lucy Honeychurch’s accidental journey of introspection and her desire to find independence and escape from English social norms.

It’s 8:54 p.m. I hear keys and the door opening. I run down the stairs to the door and standing right in front of me is my mother. My mother had me up all night worrying about whether she was ok or not. My mom takes off her shoes and asks me to come sit on the couch with her. We sit down and my mom begins to speak.

Sometimes it can be easier to let others make decisions. People find comfort in letting others decide deadlines or goals. People can find direction in others’ choices for them that they could never have possibly come up for themselves. That having been said, life also requires ownership. A person’s life is full of options and can mean so much more if personal decisions are made within. It certainly is difficult, but the struggle often makes the result all that much sweeter. Such is the case in E.M. Forster’s novel A Room with a View. Throughout the story Lucy is stuck within the rigid, cookie-cutter class system. She finds herself surrounded by people who mindlessly go with expected actions and must walk in step behind all the adults in

Flashing red and blue lights accompanied by an alarming siren in the distance is signaled when the double doors of the emergency room burst open. Pushed by several nurses, doctors, and other medical staff, a lone hospital stretcher with a bloody, wounded patient flies through the medical center towards the doors to the operating room. This image is what generally comes to mind when you think about an emergency room. Many people believe that the hospital’s emergency room is a dark and scary place. While this is true, the common misconception is that the emergency room is a place clear of humor, when in reality humor is present, even necessary, for many reasons. Many television shows, like the show ER, are based in the setting of the

Every night, as I sat on the table with my younger brothers assisting them with their homework, I hear a familiar sound at the door. As she walks her heels click, and I can hear her searching her bag for her keys, the next thing I know the keys are in the lock and as it turns me and my younger brothers’ jump. We run to the door and indeed we scream in unison “Mommy’s home”, one by one she gives us a hug and a kiss. My mother asks us how our day was, and if we finished our homework, she then looks to me and said “did you cook and assist your younger ones with their homework”; I replied “yes mom”. As I warm the food, I take my mother’s purse, jacket, and shoes put them away and prepare the table for her to eat dinner. As I glance at the

To this day, I can still remember standing at the end of my driveway watching my mother arrive home from the bus stop. This day was different; she was not coming home empty handed. In fact, she had stopped at a yard sale on the way home and bought a prize for me, a doll named Suzy. This memory, from the age of two, embraces the story of my mother and my entire childhood. In Indianapolis, Indiana in September 1980, I was born to a single mother. Throughout her life, she worked for the phone company in downtown Indianapolis. Even though she raised us through hardships and despair, she always took the time to love my brother and me outwardly. Until second grade, I have no recollection of my father visiting more than three occasions. At last, in fourth grade we began to spend weekends at his house and with his family. Sadly, when I was eleven we learned that my father had cancer. One week before Christmas, after a school music program, I read his obituary in the paper and told my mother he had passed away. From that moment, our family forever changed, specifically my relationship with my mother.

The place where I feel the most comfortable, and show my personality, is my bedroom. This is the place where I can really be myself and do what I want; it’s the place I come home to, and wake up every day. My room makes me feel comfortable because it is my own space. My house is always crazy, with my dog barking, and my siblings running around making noise, my room is the only place in the house where I can come and relax without caring about everything else, the only place that I can go to clear my mind.