The Shattering Of Glass Interrupted

“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 was about to turn around to face the familiarity of the voice when I hear a deafening explosion to my right. I did what anyone would under the circumstances. I cowered beneath my arms, ready to anticipate the blazing heat of the flames.

You never know when something might happen. An ordinary day can turn into a tragedy. November 8, 2016, was that kind of day. My dad was deer hunting so that afternoon it was just me and my mom.I was getting ready for gymnastics practice when my mom got a call. The caller ID read “Community Memorial”. I could hear the fear in my mom's voice as she picked up the phone. “H-hello?” she said. I waited nervously as my mom spoke to the hospital. Five minutes later she hung up the phone. “Your dad fell 13 feet out of his tree stand while he was hunting. He called 9-1-1 and is at Community Memorial right now” my mom said. At that point I didn’t know how serious the injuries were. “Is he ok?” I asked.

The thing that seems to be driving Stephen Glass is becoming a famous writer. Eventually writing something could get him a Pulitzer Prize. His life goals were to finish law school while working at “The New Republic” and rise to fame to get a Pulitzer-award (Ray, “Shattered Glass”). Stephen Glass says at the end of the film, “ You have to know who you’re writing for and you have to know what you’re good at. I record what people do. I find out what moves them, what scares them, and I write that down. That way they’re the ones telling the story. And you know what? Those kinds of pieces can win Pulitzer Prizes too” (Ray, “Shattered Glass”). He also knew that he was under a great deal of stress with both work and school that was a weakness for him. His other weakness was that he was dishonest with his peers about his work, which ended up getting him fired.

Two system components that meet the federal regulatory requirements that meets HIPPA and meaningful use requirements are privacy measures to prevent unauthorized access to patient’s records and the use of CPOE. The first system component is prevention of unauthorized access to patient’s records. Healthcare providers should access only the information necessary to do their job adequately and efficiently. This mean that providers are only allowed in patient’s records whose care they are involved in. in this health-IT system that is being implemented there is an application called “Break the Glass” that requires all providers to give and document their reasons for any unauthorized access to an EHR. A security screen will be displayed that requests

That first day, we drove him to the community medical centre despite it being less than a five minute walk away. At just 52 years old he could barely walk. His shuffled slowly from the car on shaking legs. A dull silence fell as we sat in the waiting room, I placed a reassuring hand on my fathers withered knee while he stared into the near distance, barely acknowledging my touch, mute and withdrawn. He smelled of urine and booze, of unclean clothes, the toll that comes from

I unbuckled my car seat and leaned forward to see my mother’s tear stricken face. I had never seen my mother cry with such sincerity. Her mascara streaking down her cheeks, creating canals of charcoal grime that tarnished her otherwise flawless face. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she attempted to talk through another sob. The sight of her pulled me back to only minutes earlier when

There are so many different forms of hate in this world. Racism, prejudice, antisemitism, bullying and more. There are victims and perpetrators everywhere, you may even be one yourself. Diverse groups all over the world constantly face hatred from people. If you are white, and part of a religion like christianity, you are in a majority. Very little hate is aimed towards you. So what about the minority? Or the diverse people? They are looked down on. People who rarely experience or even see acts of antisemitism, racism, and other acts of hate rarely know how to sympathize. They can’t relate, so that’s why I’m writing this essay. People need to know what others are going through and what hurtful words and slurs cause. They start issues of racism, antisemitism, prejudice, and more. Your words could start riots and cause great amounts of havoc.

My mom she did not eat nor speak a word. I tried not to bother her. The doctor came out of the operation room with deliberate look on his face. Something was not right. He said “I am truly sorry to inform you this bad news. We tried our best. He is in a comma.” There I could not even stand still now. I fell on my knees and started crying out loud. I could not hold it anymore.

I trudged closer to the scene and finally laid eyes upon the frantic voice I heard earlier. He was an older man, perhaps in his sixties with a receding blond-white hairline and a hooked nose. He was speaking to what appeared to be a paramedic, trying to calm the man down.

My father’s expression turned unreadable and at that moment, I knew I was dead. I started running and did not dare to stop until I was in my room. Tears stained my cheeks. It wasn’t fair.

My mother stiffens, her back arching. Blood surges from a wound in her abdomen, dyeing her shirt crimson. A patch of blood spreads over her shoulder. I blink, again, and I see her smile as she sweeps my hair trimmings into a pile. She falls, first to her knees, her hands limp at her sides, and then to the pavement, slumped to the side like a rag doll.

“I’m sorry” is not the quote I expected to take away after watching a movie encapsulating the sensational journalist Stephen Glass. Viewing Billy Ray’s "Shattered Glass" for the first time, I was struck by how fake and insecure Stephen Glass, a critically acclaimed journalist of The New Republic magazine, comes off. Charming his fellow journalists with fabricated adventures, con man Stephen Glass works The New Republic’s fact checking system to get his fictions printed as facts.

This early October afternoon, it was a little different. I pulled into my driveway and saw my mom’s Acura. Confused, I went upstairs to see what she was doing home. She normally didn’t get home until 7pm. I walked in to an “Ohh ahh,” sound. My dad was helping her into bed, while fixing a bandage around her chest. I stood there with a puzzled look on my face.

“MOM!” I yelled louder and louder noticing the blood on my hands. The man on the left side of the car tried to get the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. At the time I was thinking, “Hey idiot! I’m over here!” I was