Bolinas-Personal Narrative

When most people hear my full name , “Joann Botani," they automatically assume I'm Italian, but truth is I am actually Middle Eastern. From what I know my dad does have a little Italian in his blood but the name “Botani” actually comes from a city in Turkey. I come from an upper-middle class house hold and I have two younger siblings, a brother and a sister. Being the oldest has its challenges because there is so much expected from me whether it is school, work or social life. I tend to think my younger siblings have it easier because I am the one who pushes the boundaries with my parents and because of that my siblings usually get to do what ever the want because it is not as extreme as what I do. It has always been easy for my younger sister because she is the “princess” of the house but I am my dad’s favorite while my brother is a momma’s boy. My family is very competitive when it comes to school and grades, my little brother and I were always duking it out

My father’s presence was the only thing that stopped me.... He was running at my side, out of breath, at the end of his strength, at his wit’s end. I had no right to let myself die. What would he do without me? I was his only support.”

On my father’s cot there lay another sick person. They must have taken him away before daybreak and taken him to the crematorium.”.

The igniting spark between himself and Camila did not dwindle, everlasting and perpetual; a conundrum yet to unfold.

The first stage of grief I experienced while coming to terms with Stan’s condition was depression. Having received no sympathetic support from my family, I sat alone by Stan as he slept. Thoughts raced through my head, so much so that it was hard to think, so instead I began to cry. As I cried the fog in my head slowly lifted, and the only thing I could think about was how I was not ready for him to leave, and I couldn’t fathom how to continue without him. The cliche phrase ‘he’s in a better place now’ kept surfacing in my mind, and no matter how great my will I could not bring myself to believe it. I felt so helpless sitting there next to him knowing he was in pain and there was nothing I could do about it. I left his side only when I could no longer keep consciousness, and somehow deep within my heart I knew he wouldn’t make it through the night.

he AIDS hospice reeked from disease and neglect. On my first day there, after an hour of "training," I met Paul, a tall, emaciated, forty-year-old AIDS victim who was recovering from a stroke that had severely affected his speech. I took him to General Hospital for a long-overdue appointment. It had been weeks since he had been outside. After waiting for two and a half hours, he was called in and then needed to wait another two hours for his prescription. Hungry, I suggested we go and get some lunch. At first Paul resisted; he didn’t want to accept the lunch offer. Estranged from his family and seemingly ignored by his friends, he wasn’t used to anyone being kind to him — even though I was only talking about a Big Mac. When it arrived, Paul took his first bite. Suddenly, his face lit up with the biggest, most radiant smile. He was on top of the world because somebody bought him a hamburger. Amazing. So little bought so much. While elated that I had literally made Paul’s day, the neglect and emotional isolation from which he suffered disgusted me. This was a harsh side of medicine I had not seen before. Right then and there, I wondered, "Do I really want to go into medicine?"

Some elderly lack funds to be in a decent nursing home or medical facility with adequate care and trustworthy caregivers. I imagine the fear of the elderly who do not know what is happening to them because they are affected by dementia and are unable to make a conscious choice about the strength they will muster or the dignity they will show if pain wracks them. While this story tells an orderly, slow, and calm tale of the approaching state of death, it is the experience I would wish for everyone to have, but sadly not always the

I hear it from my bed, my mom’s flip-flops hitting the floor. Dread fills me as the footsteps get closer and closer. “Si se la pasa ahorita”. She forces the phone into my hand and mouths that es tu abuelita. She walks out and I’m left with silence on the other line. I take a deep breath and practice the words in my head as quickly as I can. “Hola Abuelita, como estas?” A million things run through my head. I could tell her about my friends, my grades, the movie that I saw or how I really love her and how I miss her, but none of that comes out. It’s a quick “how are you?...I’m good...Say hi to everyone for me. I love you” I hurriedly end the conversation, pushing the phone back into my mom’s hands and running away to my room.

We halted on the red damp dirt coating the rusty tracks, suddenly to a halt and leaned forward. The peeling crust of iron was heard to be scratching with the train, but we were were all anxious to see Bourke for what it had said to be. We all walked out with emptied pipes and some with wandering minds lurking in waves of colourful vivid colours. People told you the heat was glazing and the land was dry. The heat was. The land wasn’t. I would’ve like to sat down on the ground, but the ground was completely destroyed by damp sand. The heat was unbearable with sun rays gleaming on our faces. The only building near in sight was the public house centred a couple of miles. We all followed the man at the front who looked like he knew what he was doing.

“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

Finally, as he abruptly snapped out of his daze, he gazing at me with his deep brown eyes and sighed, "The doctors admitted my dad to Hospice today." Once those disheartening words left his mouth, his face became distraught, his eyes turned dark and droopy, his nose became stuffy, and his lips tensed tightly. Hunching over his long legs, tears began pouring out of his saddened eyes onto his freshly-ironed clothes. My heart crumbled as Grant Oubre, my consoler and companion, was crying beside me. I did not know how to comfort him much less myself; I was in complete and utter shock. As he pulled himself together, he glanced at me once again with his sagging eyes and melancholic expression as he said, "Hospice is where they make you comfortable

It was a quiet, cold Tuesday night, deep in British territory. I was with my Italian squadron, Cani da Guerra; our objective was to take out the front line of enemy British soldiers. My best friend and I were on recon, trying to spot enemy movement. The rest of my squadron was sleeping in cold, dark trenches lined with barbed wire. They’d recently been filled with poisonous gas, becoming a temporary grave for many British who lay helpless, rotting away. My best friend, Sebastian, was a spotter with me. It was twelve thirty-five, time for my shift to begin while Sebastian was sleeping.

I vividly remember that chilly night in March as I walked out of Fifer, the building my father now calls home, for the first time. I had goosebumps, but they were not from the cold I felt hit my skin. Instead, they were from the sickness in my stomach. As I got in the car, I began to cry and had to stop myself from running back inside. My entire world had turned upside-down. How could I go home without my father? How could I leave him in a nursing home, a place where he was too young and mentally fit to be confined? I had to fight the feeling that he didn’t belong. I had to remind myself of why he chose to be there, and I hated it.

A few years into the EMS, that thought rang true. Then, for another ten years, his father suffered slowly and silently. He suffered from frequent heart attacks, while never receiving treatment for them. I understand where he is coming from, as my own father drove himself to

father did not die a ‘complete’ death and that haunts him. This pain is shown in a unique way