Personal Narrative-Racism

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A man has a burlap sack version of me. He aggressively squeezes my lifeless body in is hands and with untainted anger, precision and determination he takes a crimson needle and injects it into the fibers of my heart. It is pitch black and I have just been awakened to an excruciating burning impression in my chest and upper abdomen. I toss and turn for what seems like an eternity until I can’t take the torture anymore. I waddle to the medicine cabinet. I take a trio of antacids and scuffle back to bed. I lay there until I am stirred by a blaring alarm. The aching is still present, but I don’t have time or patience for agony. Today is my last day of high school. I have looked forward to this week marked as a staple rite of passage for the past…show more content…
“But” she resends. What does she mean “but”. “I going to send you to the emergency room anyway. I could be nothing but I’m going to send you just to play it safe”. This is some bullshit. “Your heart rate is abnormally slow, which could mean nothing, or something”. She says unenthusiastically, “There is nothing here that we can do to help you, at least at the hospital they can give you something to relieve the pain”. Wait this is serious? She can’t just give me a prescription and send me on my way? OMFG! Tears begin to form. Not because upset with the physician, but because of the timing. Out of all the weeks in the year my body decides that now is the perfect time to offer anguish. I am supposed to being preparing for the night of my life. This can’t be happening to me. But wait she said my HEART?! I discharge a tidal wave of tears. The physician tries to console me but I don’t want to be held. I want this tinge to dissolve. All of my friends are trashing the school and having the time of their lives and I’m being sent to the…show more content…
The nurses finally find a vein and push fluid inside. I feel an instant soothing sting in my arm. It’s like when you out your hands by a fire. It burns but also contributes comfort. The sensation starts in my arm then thaws towards my heart and through my stomach all the way to my feet. The urgent care doctor is dead-on about the hospital, these nurses inject me with a concoction that makes my entire body thoroughly numb and tingly. I can still feel remnants of the wounding, but the solution colors me apathetic. The next morning I’m being woken up by a surgeon who tells me that they have identified that my gallbladder is inflamed and riddled with stones. I don’t know if I’m too doped up to feel emotion or if I’m all cried out. They give me an ultimatum; either they hold me over night and do the surgery in the morning, or I combat the pain on my own and come back for the procedure next week. Only one of the options makes sense. The following morning I am left physically numb but the emotional overflow of anger and frustration return. My peers are out engaging in a moment we all have dreamed of. I’m on a gurney resting in a river of tears. I was expecting to be in a worse bodily ailment, but I feel reasonable. I mean besides the four holes in my abdomen being sealed with surgical glue. I’m alive

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