My Own People
(A short story)
When I woke up in the morning, it was very cold and shivering. The sky was misty and cloudy. The previous night, it had rained heavily. The stinging and biting wind was still blowing with the ferocious speed. It seemed that we did not live in plain, but in mountains. This year’s winter had proved fatal for many people. Many old and ill had gone till that time. My one of the close relatives had also died a few weeks back.
For the last fifteen days, not for a single moment, the sun had shown its face. Most of the time, people would sit before some bonfire to prevent themselves from catching cold or keeping the biting weather at bay.
I was also among them who was very disturbed and tormented at this sudden change
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Then, we make a guess how many days it would take to get healed. If we get ourselves convinced that it may take two to three weeks, then, we start our treatment. It makes our earning flow for quite some time to come. These animals also do not fall ill so easily and regularly. And, most of all, they can’t protest like humans.’
Dr Manzoor had made me completely disturbed and confused. I was almost numb to hear his words.
‘Would a human ever liked to go down to such meanness?’ I thought.
‘Take care. But don’t say these words to anyone. You are my old day friend, so I told you.’ Dr Manzoor said and departed without noticing my pain and anguish.
I moved too slowly and cautiously. I was also afraid of my doctor who had instructed me to be on time. He had threatened that if you did not turn up today on time, I would not nurse you because he had to go somewhere.
Dr Karim’s talk had made me completely disturbed. Only one thought came into my mind repeatedly that what would be if my doctor had applied the same tactics to me also. But the very next moment I thought that it might be true with an animal, but it couldn’t be done on human. If it happened, might be an animal could survive, but not a person like
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I did not reply. He also did not look much eager to talk with me.
He started putting his things in his tool box. And, I moved towards the shop to buy the things which I needed.
In the dead of the night, when the whole world was asleep, I was awake. I was restless to think that how that innocent animal was going through the hellish phase of his life. I thought that if that beastly doctor kept doing the same thing as he was doing, he would surely die soon.
Luckily, I got sleep. And deep and sound sleep always bring dreams, either good or bad. I saw that some brutish and distorted figures had pressed me hard on the ground. I was trying to wrench myself away from their firm and cruel clutch. But as much as I tried, more I failed.
They were attacking me with the knives, swords and scalpels. Incessant pain and cry were coming out from my mouth. At every moment, I was losing my precious blood and life also. But whereupon, my body was pouring out blood, for them, it was like a stream of freshly minted coins and they were trying to gather into their hands and pots. In that cruel scene, I saw many faces which were close to me.
In her personal essay, Dr. Grant writes that she learned that most cases involving her patients should not be only handled from a doctor’s point of view but also from personal experience that can help her relate to each patient regardless of their background; Dr. Grant was taught this lesson when she came face to face with a unique patient. Throughout her essay, Dr. Grant writes about how she came to contact with a patient she had nicknamed Mr. G. According to Dr. Grant, “Mr. G is the personification of the irate, belligerent patient that you always dread dealing with because he is usually implacable” (181). It is evident that Dr. Grant lets her position as a doctor greatly impact her judgement placed on her patients, this is supported as she nicknamed the current patient Mr.G . To deal with Mr. G, Dr. Grant resorts to using all the skills she
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Everything will be all right.” My doctor was there. That reassured me. I felt that in his presence, nothing serious could happen to me. Every one of his words was healing and every glance of his carried a message of hope. “It will hurt a little,” he said, “but it will pass. Be brave.” (79)
„One winter his cattle had perished in a blizzard. The next summer one of his plow horses broke its leg in a prairie-dog hole and had to be shot. Another summer he lost his hogs from cholera, and a valuable stallion died from a rattlesnake bite. Time and again his crops had failed. He had lost two children, boys, that came between Lou and Emil, and there had been the cost of sickness and death“
This internal conflict is a result of the mistakes a physician makes, and the ability to move on from it is regarded as almost unreachable. For example, in the essay, “When Doctors Make Mistakes”, Gawande is standing over his patient Louise Williams, viewing her “lips blue, her throat swollen, bloody, and suddenly closed passage” (73). The imagery of the patient’s lifeless body gives a larger meaning to the doctor’s daily preoccupations. Gawande’s use of morbid language helps the reader identify that death is, unfortunately, a facet of a physician’s career. However, Gawande does not leave the reader to ponder of what emotions went through him after witnessing the loss of his patient. He writes, “Perhaps a backup suction device should always be at hand, and better light more easily available. Perhaps the institutions could have trained me better for such crises” (“When Doctors Make Mistakes” 73). The repetition of “perhaps” only epitomizes the inability to move on from making a mistake. However, this repetitive language also demonstrates the ends a doctor will meet to save a patient’s life (73). Therefore, it is not the doctor, but medicine itself that can be seen as the gateway from life to death or vice versa. Although the limitations of medicine can allow for the death of a patient to occur, a doctor will still experience emotional turmoil after losing someone he was trying to
Late at night, I was looking out of the window and I saw some shadows walk past it. I was suspicious so I snuck out of the back door, when I realized that the shadows were Black Riders. I was scared so I rang the alarm, and luckily the Riders ran away. Later, when the group and I were in a cave, I was some black figures on the road far away. I had a bad feeling so I put on by ring, and later realised that they were the Black Riders again. A crowned Rider jumps at me with a sword, but Elbereth protects me. I took off my ring then fell unconscious. I woke up later with everybody surrounding me. I had a large, painful wound that Aragon tried to heal, but it only got worse. The knife I got cut with was cursed to not let wounds heal quickly so that was more bad news for me. However, I am still very lucky to be alive. Elrond sent several elves to help protect me. Glorfindel warned me that there were Black Riders nearby, so we kept running for a while. Slowly, they started to catch up and all nine Riders show up. They cut me off, and I get a sudden chilly feeling, but my horse continues to ride and gets past the Black Riders. I tell the Ringwraiths not to follow me, but the leader just breaks my sword by raising his hand. Suddenly, there is a flood coming towards me and I feel myself
It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage; but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were so many miles away, and whom I had not seen for so long.
As I awoke I saw the face of a man staring down at me with a look of pure horror and
I was interupted by a man who cleared his throat. I turned around to see what was going on, he growled so I turned back around. I was now terrified. I noticed that my father had fallen to the back of the pack I was curious as to why he did such a thing. I was finding the trip very difficult as my legs hurt when I took a step. I heard the same man clear his throat I looked behind me and I saw his machete unsheathed and raised in the air, I knew this was not going to end well for me. The man slashed at me with his machete. The pot I was holding fell and broke. I was running to my father and while I was doing so I cried, “My father, they have killed me!” as approached him Okonkow, my father slashed at me with his machete.
The doctor contains his professionalism, but as it goes on, pieces of frustrated irregularities begin to surface. As the doctor learns that the parents say no, that the girl says she doesn’t have a sore throat, he purs...
• The doctor’s dilemma is that if he leaves the girl alone he will not be able to check if she has Diphtheria and may possibly die. If he continues on the road he’s going he will have to resort to measures that are socially unacceptable and even cruel.
his dread of hurting here made him release her just at critical times when I had almost achieved success, till I wanted to kill him.” (Williams 2) This quote come from the story “ The Use of Force” written by William Carlos Williams. In this quote we can see how the little girl would use or do anything in order to not get checked. By this point of the story the doctor is almost at border line in losing it. every little thing that the girl does is getting to him, even the parents of Mathilda. The doctor tells the father to set the girl on his lap and to not let go no matter what. But the child wouldn’t give up without putting up a fight. As soon as the dad did what he was told the child began to to scream like if she was getting killed. “Don’t, you’re hurting me. Let me go I tell you. Then she shrieked terrifyingly, hysterically. Stop it! Stop it! You’re killing me!” (Williams
There I was, sitting on my bed at 2:30 am. Wondering about the dream I
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.