Personal Narrative: Putting My Oxygen Mask On First

Ever since I could remember, soccer had been in my life. If there was a soccer team that needed a coach, my father was always the first to volunteer. There were almost too many strenuous weekends spent hours away from home for soccer tournaments to count. My entire family, consisting of my parents, my siblings, my dog, and myself, packed in a mini-van heading to a city that I had never heard of for soccer games. But when I entered high school, all that would soon go away. I kept playing the same sport that I always had, although now I had to wake up at five in the morning for six hours of high school soccer practice in the smoldering summer heat in order to make the high school team. High School sports were more competitive than anything I had done before. I put in as much effort as I could to make the Varsity High School team, staying out past dinner to practice even longer. I was utterly divulged in soccer and trying to be the best I could be. Soon, I would regret placing a game over spending time with my family.

As I slide my feet into my cleats, I feel a surge of power course through my body. I lose sense of reality as I step into this escape. Everything else seems secondary. Such is the power of football: it even has the ability to manipulate time. Walking onto the field, I flick a ball with my foot into my hands. What words are to an author and paint is to an artist: a football is to me. My tool of empowerment, expression, and creativity: a symbol of my world.

Reaching across the center console of my car, I imagined the commute that I had into school. My 1992 Jeep Cherokee courageously braved the snowstorm of the year, with only one functional windshield wiper and a forlorn four wheel drive system. As I turned onto the Merritt Parkway, a Honda Civic swerved past me and proceeded to weave in and out of the afternoon traffic. Fast-forward sixty seconds and that Honda was now engulfed by the powder white trees which bound the highway. Instinctively, I pulled up behind the crash site, dialing 911 as I ran over to the mangled wreck. I peered into the car, my pupils the size of marbles, and the driver seemed uninjured; regardless, I proceeded to reassure the driver that Emergency Medical Technician’s/Paramedic’s

Then I began to spill out the emotions of never being able to compete in college sports. My competitive nature will always be a part of me, and now I would have to find something to replace my participation in organized sports. As I was writing this, other ideas began to flow. Attending such a close-knit school for four years, the next ideas inevitably began effortlessly pouring out: missing my peers and teachers, being

At first I intended to keep going this way, if my dorm parents didn't introduce to to the long distance coach of track team in an occasional opportunity, claiming that extracurricular sports practice would definitely assisted with my situation of depression in both physical and mental ways. I looked into her expectant eyes, hesitated, and agreed. Because in her eyes, I saw the silhouette of myself, who has abandoned her fragile dream, becoming a pale and featureless figure. And at that moment, I naturally wanted to bet all my fortune to chase back those of my aspirations, who got washed away with my tears of disappointed that a and dazed emptiness.

It was my sophomore year, and the day had come to find out who made the varsity lacrosse team. We piled into the locker room to discover rows of brand new helmets. The list of the varsity players was written on the whiteboard. The team was excited, the locker room buzzing with noise. My heart dropped as I realized that my name wasn’t written there. My friends were admiring their new helmets and I had to hold back tears and disappointment. I know now that I still had to be developed at the junior varsity level, but it wasn’t easy to understand back then. At practice that day, I played out of pure spite, every move filled with rage. You aren’t good enough, I thought. I left practice that day without saying goodbye to my friends.

Growing up, sports never seemed to be my expertise. Dancing my youth away, I never imagined to show passion for such an intrusive contact sport. My friends continued to nag at me saying “You have to try out for the soccer team.” My first year of middle school I stepped out onto the field. Occasionally forgetting to breathe,I focused right on the ball. I started to think to myself that I could get used to this. I mean how bad could it be? What I didn’t realize was I did not have much soccer skills under my belt, but making the team already was an accomplishment. I respected the captains when they talked, and I tried, day after day, to pick up the skills they possessed.

Yet my apprehension prevailed as I continued to fear getting put in the game in case another player was injured. I was still afraid of making mistakes and getting blamed by screaming coaches and angry teammates. Sometimes these fears came true. During my sophomore season, my position led me to play in the varsity games on many occasions. On such occasions, I often made mistakes. Most of the time the mistakes were not significant; they rarely changed the outcome of a play. Yet I received a thorough verbal lashing at practice for the mistakes I had made. These occurrences only compounded my fears of playing. However, I did not always make mistakes. Sometimes I made great plays, for which I was congratulated. Now, as I dawn on my senior year of soccer, I feel like a changed person.

“ Run Agatha, Run,” my mom and dad would yell to me as I ran the soccer ball down the field past other players. Soccer was my sport, it was what I was destined to do, if I wasn’t doing that I would not know where I would be in life. My mom had put me into this sport when I was only 4 years old and ever since then I couldn’t stop playing.I was the best on my team and getting a scholarship for my dedication and hard work. My siblings, Jennifer and Jonathan couldn’t be less interested in sports, let alone soccer. My family and I lived in a small apartment that consisted of 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom, a kitchen, and a little dining area. My siblings and I barely had anywhere to sleep and food was a problem. I wanted a better future for my family and so soccer was the answer to all my prayers.

Our school was never very good at sports and only about five girls would be cut. I was jittery the day that the varsity roster was to be posted; I wanted nothing more than to be part of the team. After classes ended, I walked to the athletic board, where the varsity roster would be posted. I anxiously scanned the list for my name. I scanned it again. As my eyes ran over the page a third time, my heart began to sink. I hadn’t made the team. I was one of five girls who were cut from the varsity team. In a daze, I went to practice. Instead of focusing like I usually did, I went through the motions. The five of us who made up the junior varsity team had a separate practice with the assistant coach. After the sting of failure finally faded, I began to work harder than before. I showed up early to practice and stayed late every day. Every weekend I spent at least two hours on the field practicing. I was determined to make the coaches regret putting me on the “JV” team. As the season ended, I didn’t stop working to become better. Any day that was not too cold, I could be found on the field. When spring came, I joined the soccer team, hoping to improve on my endurance and speed. Over the summer, I spent at least two hours every day running and practicing. When the field hockey season rolled back around, I was ready to show off my skills and make the varsity

The program started on a crisp, fall afternoon in October. I climbed eagerly out of my car and stepped onto the damp grass of the Joyce soccer field. This complex had been my second home for the last seven years. All the blood, sweat, and tears I had put into training here, building up my skill set. I was snapped back into reality as my mom pulled out of the parking lot and back into the street. I waved goodbye and made my way

I just went in for a cleaning, all I wanted was for my dentist to check for any cavities and tell me everything was in perfect condition. I don’t understand how I managed to wake up in the middle of a siege. The last thing I remember was Dr. Goldstein saying to me “Well Andre, it looks like you have a few cavities, I’m going to use some anaesthesia, just in case you don't respond to the pain medication again. Is that alright?” I did feel unsure about his decision, I couldn't understand why I would need anaesthesia during a cleaning, but I let him do his job. Dizziness soon followed, before I woke up in a gloomy room with the door barricaded. The only light in the room was coming from a TV showing the news. As I got off the dental chair, I asked Mr Goldstein “What happened here? Why is the door barricaded with furniture?”

Well I got my Cpap machine yesterday and I was really excited to have a great nights sleep. I guess it's going to take some getting used to because I don't feel much different. The pressure setting that they have me on is pretty high and it changes throughout the night and that wakes me up. I am really hoping that I can get used to this thing soon.

I am Mr. Lungs. I am located on either side of the chest. I am in the respiratory system. Air is taken to the body from the nose, or the mouth, then taken to the trachea, which branches off to the bronchi, then to me. I work with the heart and the blood as well. My main functions are to do a process called “respiration,” or breathing. In respiration, oxygen from incoming air enters the blood, and carbon dioxide leaves the blood. In order to do this, oxygen, coming from air, comes to the nose, or the mouth, then to the trachea, then the bronchi, and finally to me. I am important because, I supply the body with oxygen, and take waste out. The Human Body Corporation needs oxygen to live. You should not fire me because, the Human Body Corporation

“Son, I doubt you will find a girl of your choice!” My mom said these words on a lighter note when I said, “I won’t learn how to dance, I am afraid of people criticizing me.” Then at the age of ten I was so rigid that I avoided learning new things even though my mom tried in every possible way. I THOUGHT to practice dancing because I wanted to keep her happy. However, the more I danced the more I enjoyed it and within two days I danced with my mother during a festival called Navratri. Dancing with her gave me an experience I never knew before. I didn’t dance that great but, I felt more alive, happy and most importantly, I felt that I was bonded with my mother in a meaningful way. That day I gained an important lesson- never stop learning and