Summary : ' The Curtain Curtains '

The stench of death hit my nostrils as I opened the door to go inside, which is why I always hated going to the hospital. We waited the fifteen minute queue, until I heard my name from a nurse. I followed the nurse into a small, beige room. I sat down on the examining table, as my doctor walked in. I told him my symptoms, and he did a quick check up. His cold fingers pressed against my lower back. “Breathe in and out.” He said. I did as told. “Slower.” he exclaimed. At that moment, while I was slowly breathing in and out, I could hear a small click every time I inhaled. The doctor looked up and said, “Ahhh, you seem to have pneumonia.” He explained to my mom and I what that meant because we were clueless. After he finished, he told us that if I waited any longer to go to the hospital, he wouldn’t be speaking to me, which opened my mom’s eyes finally. He told me that I couldn’t go to school for at least another two weeks, gave me a school note and my prescription. We left the hospital. My mom dropped me off, and went to pick up the medication. As I lay in bed, I remember thinking about everything that has happened to me in the past two days, and what the doctor told me. Those thoughts were interrupted by the opening of my bedroom door as my mom walked in. She handed me the medication. I swallowed the pills, and fell asleep. The next morning my mom walks in with a stack of papers. She said, “It’s alright if you’re not able to attend class,

It was not abnormal for my parents to reflect on their experiences surrounding my birth on my birthdays, when family and friends had their own children or when they saw glimpses of my personality which reminded them that I have been “strong willed”, as they refer to it, from day one. In fact, the regularity in which the story was told, and details included in their remembrance, resulted in me envisioning the events as if I could recall them from my own memory. Although I never knew the true significance of birth stories prior to beginnings to read Gaskin’s memoirs, I have always been thankful for parents’ commitment to telling me how I came into this world and the details they included, as it has greatly influenced my feelings towards birth.

Staring down at the baby; my baby in his little plastic box, I was overcome by a fear I had never felt before. I would later find out that his box was called and isolate, a special bed for premature babies. His eyes were covered with gauze, he had a tube in his nose that was assisting his breathing, and he was so small. Awestruck, I watched his slight movements. His mouth moved as if he was searching for something. His tiny hands grasped for something to hold on to. I slowly reached my finger to his hand and he clutched it with all of his little might. His grasp sent shock waves of love through my body that I had never experienced in my life. I was a mother.

“Hello, HELLO!” I remember when I was 8 years young and I had just come home from a long day of what I had believed to be rigorous work. I had hoped upon my arrival there would be someone I would be able to speak to about my day. I had not heard a sound besides the gust of wind which slammed the door shut behind me “Whoosh Bang”. With no one in sight, I had bursted into tears with the absence of the sign of life. My parents had divorced when I was 7 years old which truly affected my life. As a child I remember sunday breakfast with my family and many activities and trips taken as a

A single beam of light shone thru the curtain. The specs of dust in the room danced between the rays, whisked into the air by the pleasant breeze tip toeing thru the screen door. I could feel the warmth on my cheek as I rose from the sheets, thoroughly rested. I briskly got ready, slipping on my tennis shoes, old and worn. Stepping outside, I was greeted by the painfully sweet aroma of sweet pea flowers, entranced by the blissful gleams of sunlight, and spellbound by the familiar screeching of parrots, flocking in clouds of bright vermilion.

As I walked downstairs I could smell the aroma of eggs, bacon, and toast drifting up the hall. The sound of the bacon sizzling and the dishes being moved around gave me a warm, toasty feeling that calmed my nerves and made me relax. As I sat down at the island in the center of the kitchen, my mom served my breakfast to me.

At the age of 5 my mother, my father and I took a walk over the bridge in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina. While never been able settle down as a child, my mother took it upon herself to carry me across so that I don’t fall down thirty feet to a watery death. As we enjoy the smell of the air and the wind blowing coolly against us, we decided to take a photo. Father went across from us with the camera and my mother and I stood on the other side, our backs facing the edge of the bridge and the river leading to the ocean. It wasn’t until I heard a scream and saw a flash that I realized I was falling for what felt like 10 seconds. After fifteen hours in a coma, I awoke to find my family happy as can be, even though I had no memory of any of them. It was from that point that I wondered how I would have been a different person had I retained all my previous feelings and thoughts.

So I laughed when the villagers insulted Amihan for giving up on life, when everyone told us we were ungrateful to Mama for her ‘hard work’ in supporting our family. I smiled when I was asked how I was coping. And I smiled as they lowered her into the ground. I smiled and laughed through it all--just like Amihan taught me. But I was still filled with so much sadness it felt as if birds and bees were crashing against my body, but I couldn't feel anything. I was transparent; a glass pane that living things kept crashing into, believing that behind the wall, there was a human being.

But one day, my life changed. I was different. Everything that I looked at was blurry. It were as if there had been a fire, and the air was full of smoke. It was me, my eyes that looked at Obby, the ones that saw my family. At that moment, I ran to my mom. She looked worried for me, so we decided to go to the doctors.

In 1987 President Ronald Reagan gave an introspective speech in front of the Brandenburg gate in Berlin. That said speech is known to us as “Remarks at the Brandenburg Gate”. When Reagan gave this speech he was toward the end of his political career, he had served two terms as president of the United States, and was well-known for his role as a gifted mediator and peacemaker. It was also during the Cold war between the United States and the Soviet Union. To the west of Berlin was the free democratic countries of Western Europe. To the east was what was known as the iron curtain an area controlled by the soviet union and its allies. Inside the iron curtain freedoms were restricted and liberty denied.

The moment when I was old enough to comprehend how I came into this world, I should have known there would be a great deal of impediments for me to overcome. I was mistaken as twins because of a little white lie which led my grandmother to bring two bassinets to the hospital. However, everyone would soon have the relief of knowing there was only one me; but a fear of panic would surface once it was determined that my feet had took the place of where I may head should have fell. I was born breech. My world was upside down before I even took my first breath. A world I didn’t ask to be in but became grateful for because of my grandmother. My life was never intended to be simple. I owe my life accomplishments’ to the woman who was willing to take both of me home. She is the reason I am who I am today and the reason I will be who I am tomorrow.

Not far from the Plaid Curtain, at around three or four in the morning, on the 9th of July, Chandler the Fair and his section were approaching the last known coordinates of the Jericho Series plane that disappeared five months ago. Although it was almost a full moon at the time, some of them wielded flashlights, hoping that they could be able to see in those low light situations.

They swarmed around me. The tears felt like fire. I heard worried, faint murmurs. “she's not going to make it”, and they're reassuring my crying, helpless parents, “she's going to be alright”. Even though I was so young, I thought that this was it. The fear. The pain. The sorrow. The memories still haunt me to this day.

Imagine living a life where you never don’t feel empty inside. It wasn’t like it just came to me one day, it took years and years for it to come to me. I was 12 years old when my grandfather died from Alzheimer’s disease and ever since that day I had thought it was just grief and the stress from losing someone who meant so much to me. It soon started to hurt me, to go to school. I had always loved school and had always loved learning, but leaving my bed made my insides feel like they were on fire and made me feel like the world would explode, leaving me helpless and alone. Everywhere I went, I felt lost and confused. It seemed like as long as I was in bed, nothing would hurt me and time could stand still. I was at battle with myself, refusing to admit I had anything wrong with my brain because only crazy people had mental health issues and I was definitely not crazy.

I walked into the plain, white room, and although I was with six other people I had never felt more alone than at that moment. I didn’t belong in a place like that, and I felt how out of place I was. There were two colored benches, against two of the walls in the room. The man whom had led us into the treacherous place demanded that we sat and waited for further instructions. On the bench, to the left, all seven of us had taken a seat and, without speaking a word to one another, we waited. I remember thinking to myself, “I’m not like these people, I’m 19 years old. What in the hell am I doing in this godforsaken hellhole?”