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How to cope with test anxiety
How to cope with test anxiety
How to cope with test anxiety
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"Ring, ring", I wondered who was calling me at this time of evening. "Yes; o.k.; Yes, I'll be there", I said before hanging up the phone. What was wrong, I wondered all that evening that the doctor wanted me to come in to discuss my lab results? I had never been asked to come in to the office after doing blood tests before; when receiving a call as this the mind plays tricks on the person and wild things start popping up in the head. "Joyce, I need to leave work at 10 o'clock today to go to the doctor's office." Trying not to show my nervousness the words come out fast. "Let me know what the doctor said", Joyce exclaimed as she walked back to her office. "O.k." was all I could say as she was walking off. The doctor's office was crowded as I checked in at the front desk. "Do you have insurance?" the lady at the window asks several times before I realized she was talking to me. "I'm just here to talk to the doctor about my lab results" I squeaked, "Sign here, Please." Sitting down was just about unbearable; wall to wall pregnant women, as far as the eye could see. "Was this what the doctor was going to tell me, that he made a mistake while doing my partial hysterectomy and now I was pregnant? No; that couldn't be it! It's been a year since I had surgery. So, what was so important that he couldn't tell over the phone? May be the endometriosis came back; yes, that was it, it had to be. Why wasn't my name being called?" It had been 20 minutes since I signed in. Waiting when uncertainty was on one side of the door and clear was on the other, waiting was the hardest thing to do. "Selena Gibson" the nurse called out after opening the closed door. I stood up and quickly moved forward toward the nurse. Stepping through the door I was ask to turn to the right and go down the hallway. Walking down the long stretch dragging my feet along the way I was scared to find out what the doctor was going to say. Turning to the left the room looked impersonal and cold. I was asked to seat in the chair and wait till the doctor came in with the results.
If a doctor didn't come and talk to us soon, I was going to march my way into one of those rooms and find the doctor myself. It was cruel to keep us waiting so long without answers; I was going crazy with worry.
When I think about the moments leading up to my diagnosis I remember feeling weak, confused, shaky and sleepy. I did not notice that I had began sleeping throughout the day. My body was craving soft drinks like soda and juice but not food. Days would go by and I eventually fell into a deep slumber that I found myself only waking up from to use the bathroom. I knew something was wrong and that if I did not get to a hospital it would get worse. Nothing could have prepared me for the life changing diagnosis I would receive.
I’m actually kind of shocked I could write about recovery because it is a topic with a special meaning to myself. But, I found it easier to write about my own experience with a negative event this time, and I believe it is because I grew as a writer. I saw the value the personal testimony adds to a piece, and thus I could add my own story.
When my grandmother was told that she had breast cancer first time, she decided to cure it with non-Western healing method. She went to a sort of temple that heal and improve one's body condition from detoxing and changing one's diet. At the temple, she had taken enzyme sand bath twice a day, had fasted for a week or more, and had eaten healthy addictive free food. The people at the temple said that cancer or any kind of sickness would come from what we consume in daily life. Therefore, they tried to cure health problems from changing one's diet and consequently improve one's potential body condition. Actually, from this treatment, my grandmother's cancer went away. However, after a couple years from that, she started eating unhealthy again,
Imagine having to wake up each day wondering if that day will be the last time you see or speak to your father. Individuals should really find a way to recognize that nothing in life is guaranteed and that they should live every day like it could be there last. This is the story of my father’s battle with cancer and the toll it took on himself and everyone close to him. My father was very young when he was first diagnosed with cancer. Lately, his current health situation is much different than what it was just a few months ago. Nobody was ready for what was about to happen to my dad, and I was not ready to take on so many new responsibilities at such an adolescent age. I quickly learned to look at life much differently than I had. Your roles change when you have a parent who is sick. You suddenly become the caregiver to them, not the other way around.
When I was younger, I remember feeling as though I lived in a bubble; my life was perfect. I had an extremely caring and compassionate mother, two older siblings to look out for me, a loving grandmother who would bake never ending sweets and more toys than any child could ever realistically play with. But as I grew up my world started to change. My sister developed asthma, my mother became sick with cancer and at the age of five, my disabled brother developed ear tumors and became deaf. As more and more problems were piled upon my single mother’s plate, I, the sweet, quiet, perfectly healthy child, was placed on the back burner. It was not as though my family did not love me; it was just that I was simply, not a priority.
So, I told my doctor I wanted to be induced. After all, my due date was only two weeks away and only five percent of women give birth on the day determined by their doctors. When I was finally there, I looked at the outside, the hospital was set in a suburban – like area, and when I went inside the building, I was in a welcoming ultramodern facility. I went straight to the labor and delivery section where they said my doctor had gone out of town; nobody believed that I was supposed to be induced that day. It took them like 15 minutes to confirm what I had told them, to finally decide to take me to a room to connect all kinds of tubes to my body. I went into the room; it looked very comfortable, but it was freezing. I lay on the typical hospital bed, one of those that make sleeping and resting easier.
Yes, another chemo Monday. Back again for two or three more for the road. We got here at 8 AM, something happened with the labs and we had to wait two hours before anything even started. So we were here a total of nine hours! We could've driven to San Francisco. We could've flown to New York and had some extra time. We could've gone to Hawaii and back. But, who ever wants to go back.
Throughout my life, many of my family members have struggled with their health. My uncle had colon cancer and both of my grandmothers had breast cancer. Experiencing cancer's effects firsthand instilled a sense fulfillment with helping those who can not help themselves. Through my church, we would volunteer by doing various service projects: feeding the homeless, building and painting houses for those who have undergone rough circumstances, and spending time with people going through drug rehabilitation. Every single time I would come home and be ashamed of myself because I could have done more. I could have stayed up later and packed more lunches or I could have put aside more time to build more houses. My drive to help people progressively
Aunt Leslie then snapped me out of my deep thought asking whether I was okay. I told her I was even if it was obviously a complete lie. "So shall we go back to Geraldine tomorrow morning? Or would you like to leave in the evening?"
I said, "goodbye" to the nurse and left that awful place. Outside, I took a deep breath of cool fresh air. I practically ran to get inside my safe car. When back inside i cried in excruciating pain, I couldn't even feel my face. I sat there for a while thinking of those three terrifying words, Dr. Rust's office. I inserted the key into my ignition, turned it and drove away. When I knew I was home safe, I looked into my rear-view mirror. When I saw that old rickety building filled with bad experiences, I realized that that had been the most uncomfortable place I had ever visited, and I surely wasn't going to return.
Its 7:30pm. It’s a Wednesday evening. A little 4 year old boy Chad and his mother Kelsey are at home. “It’s time for a bath” Kelsey calls. Chad walks down the hallway and into the bathroom. She already had the water filled up. As he steps into the bubbly water, a bump on chads stomach catches her eye. At the time she wasn’t thinking it was anything that could harm her son so she let it rest for a few days. She started realizing chad was having shortness of breath, he was losing weight, his lymph nodes were swelling, he would sweat badly during night time night, started seeing purple spots, and he would bruise really easy. She watched it on and off and it hasn’t changed. Its Monday now and she’s worried. She went ahead and took him to the doctor.
Diamond Bar High School teacher Christian Calero went from facing death to instructing students on the finer points of public speaking—all in the span of seven months. Despite having gone through a rigorous treatment process to kill the cancer cells residing in his neck, the cancer survivor is back to his teaching ways, spending his days in class pushing his students toward success.
Childhood is the time that children are suppose to be carefree and enjoy themselves before embarking on the path of responsibility and adulthood. This wasn't the case for me. It all began one day in early August when my sister and I sat with my parents in the hospital room, talking to my Dad about things we wanted to do when he was discharged. A doctor walked in with an unsettling air surrounding him. We all sat looking at him but before we could ask who he was, he said, “So let's discuss your cancer treatment options.” Cancer. That day was the first that word had even entered the picture. Everyone's face paled, but I didn't even get a moment to process the information before I was being forced out of the room, dragging my sister behind me to the waiting area. While we sat in there, she cried and sobbed about the fatal disease that would wreak havoc through our lives, but I pushed it all away. I focused on her. I was oblivious to the cloud of death forming in the horizon.
I was quivering as I sat on the pristinely white sheeted gurney. I had no idea what to expect. Ami sat in a plastic, maroon chair over in the corner and looked at the cold, disinfected, tile floor. The sounds of beeping machines and ticking clock flooded my ears. The nurse knocked on the door and both Ami and I jumped. She handed me a clipboard with some paperwork on it that asked for the basics: name, date of birth, reason for being here, consent to treat, and so on and so forth. I filled it all out the best I could, my mind was lost in another galaxy. Besides, how was I supposed to know what year my father was born in and the phone number to my mother’s work? Once I finished, the nurse took the clipboard and exited the room once again.