First quarter Outside reading book review
My sisters Keeper, by Jodi Picoult. Washington Square Press, 2004.
Genre- Realistic Fiction (Novel)
My sister’s Keeper tells the story of a genetically designed child, Named Anna, who is created for the purpose of helping save her sister Kate, who has acute promyelocytic leukemia. Anna and Kate live with their parents, Brian and Sara, and their rebellious older brother Jesse, in Providence, Rhode Island. Kate was diagnosed with leukemia when she was 2, and is presently 16, while Anna is 13. The children lived a very abnormal childhood because of Kate’s serious illness and this affected them as they got older. They couldn’t have friends over, and couldn’t commit to anything because no one knew when Kate would relapse, or need a trip to the hospital. Anna and Jesse sometimes felt as if all the attention was always towards Kate. Anna begins to question who she really is, and if she was only brought into this world to help the survival of another child. When her parents ‘designed’ her, the doctors were able to hook up the fathers sperm to the mother’s egg and design a perfect donor match for Kate. So, Anna donates parts of her body to Kate (such as blood, marrow, etc.) However, Anna decides that she wants to start making medical decisions herself, and hires a lawyer to sue her parents. The story takes place mainly at the home of the Fitzgerald’s, (Anna, Kate, Jesse , Sara, and Brian) the Alexander Law offices, the Hospital, and the Courtroom.
“[A] Fascinating character study framed by a complex, gripping, story….A beautiful, heartbreaking, controversial and honest book.” –Booklist (starred review)
I enjoyed the descriptive, thoughtful writing style of the book, and how she told it from 5 different points of view. By hearing five separate characters points of views, and how she efficiently intertwined the relationships of the families, lawyers, judges, etc. I get a better understanding of what is happening in the book and what emotional toll it takes on everyone. Although it can make the book very complicated, because there is so much going on, I find it to also be a helpful technique that I do not see in other books. I also like the relationships the author creates between the separate events in the story. For example, how she can connect everything to fire. Brian works as a firefighter, Anna’s lawsuit and Kate’s disease could be described as a fire, etc. Picoult also writes into the depths of the characters feelings, as she does in many of her other books/novels. This is a very unique style of writing that I enjoy to read.
“There are pictures of me too, but not many…….It’s nobody’s fault, and it’s not a big deal, but it’s a little depressing all the same. A photo says, you were happy, and I wanted to catch that. A photo says you were so important to me that I put down everything else to come watch you.”
From reading this book I could tell that the author had some connection with the events. The book affected me, and made me relate and feel bad for the characters because she described them so well. I could relate to some of the experiences of Anna, but the medical events were new to me, so I paid attention to those the most. Picoult described the medical details of the story so that we could understand what was going on, and didn’t only use fancy words that we could not interpret. Overall, I enjoyed this book very much.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The birth of a memory
My value essay
I asked myself at the beginning of this assignment, what the word priceless actually meant. Dictionary.com of course gave me the same dry answer that I would hear from everyone else. So I started thinking. Does priceless mean worthless? Or so valuable that it simply could not be compared with any amount of money in the world. But then I posed the questions, could you put a price tag on a priceless moment? Of course, we have yet to establish this value system and it would be very complicated, because so many variables would be involved in determining the worth of something that doesn’t physically exist. But without knowing the worth of a priceless moment, how does one determine which is of higher value? Are they all worth the same?
It is April fools day, 1997 and the gods have decided that to play a little “trick” on us New Englanders. One of the worst snowstorms of the decade in Massachusetts took place that day. I ride with my cousin, aunt, and uncle to the Springfield hospital, which took a little over two hours for a usually 30 minute drive. We trudge through the snow and threw the hospital doors, by which time we are sopping wet and covered in slush. We take off our coats, check in at the round marble desk, and walk down to the waiting room outside the room where my mother is. She is having her c-section today. Meme and I wait until late that night, trying to entertain ourselves with the limited selection of Dr. Suess books and pamphlets on eating disorders. Finally the kind and tired looking nurse comes to tell us that my mother is fine, and out of surgery, and calls us in to see the baby. I run over to my mom, who is propped up on her hospital bed, with an IV coming out of her wrist. Molly, the new baby is in my mothers arms, wrapped in a blanket with a thin pink hat covering her small head. I crawl into the stiff hospital bed, and my mom puts Molly in my arms. She giggles and smiles up at me. I hold out my hand and she slowly wraps her delicate pink fingers around it. The moment of first seeing my little sister will always stay carved in my mind.
I walk into my grandfathers bedroom, and over to the robins egg blue wall where he has hung all of his pictures. We are in New York City, in his apartment with the rest of my family getting ready for my cousins wedding. I run my fingers along the carved wooden frames that hold the photographs of my Grandmother. My eyes scan past the pictures of her younger years, and to my grandparents wedding photograph. The frame is a thin dark wood, with gold accents around the edges. I had never met my grandmother before she died. Her name was also Betty. I try to imagine what she was like, but the photographs don't offer much help. I walk over to his dresser and see an old, pale colored jewelry box sitting on the top. I open the latch and see dozens of beautiful pearls, gold, bracelets necklaces; all I assumed belonged to my grandmother. It is lined with black velvet like material, and has three drawers, one of which is broken. I am especially fond of one of the bracelets. It is gold, with an old clasp and fits perfectly on my wrist. It has two monogrammed charms, also gold. One is square, and has her initials in the center. The other has her birth sign, a Virgo, and on the back, the date she ran her gold medal track race.
I see my grandfather in the doorway. I jump and close the jewelry box. My grandfather doesn’t mind that I was looking at her old things. He sits me down and says I could keep her bracelet if I would like. I tell him that I’d love to, and I thank him. Then, he starts to tell me about her. From when she came over to America, to when they got married. The bracelet is a reminder of that day, and helps me to keep the memory of my Grandmother.
My grandmothers gold bracelet and the memory of my sister’s birth are both valuable to me for similar and different reasons. Aside from the fact that one is an object, and the other a memory, they both represent people that are very important to me, the bracelet representing my Grandmother, and the memory of my sister being born, obviously representing my little sister. They also represent important and specific days of my life, because the day I got my bracelet is what I remember most about it, and my sister was born on a certain day when I was younger. My bracelet however helps me remember and connect someone I've never met, and the memory of the birth of my sister is when I first met someone that I would be living with.
Through the reading and commenting of the essays that have been written, I've concluded that actual physical objects are in turn, worthless. We all described a scene in which our item was used, and what we remember and describe is the memory of using or being with that object, not the object itself. One doesn't buy a new car so it will sit in their garage and "act" valuable, but to bring it on the road trip to California, or drive it to work everyday. Your expensive lacrosse stick is worth nothing without the memory of scoring the winning goal in the last game of the season, or carrying it to practice every week. It is not the item itself that we cherish, but rather the memories that it hold. They are a mere representation of what we truly value in life.
I asked myself at the beginning of this assignment, what the word priceless actually meant. Dictionary.com of course gave me the same dry answer that I would hear from everyone else. So I started thinking. Does priceless mean worthless? Or so valuable that it simply could not be compared with any amount of money in the world. But then I posed the questions, could you put a price tag on a priceless moment? Of course, we have yet to establish this value system and it would be very complicated, because so many variables would be involved in determining the worth of something that doesn’t physically exist. But without knowing the worth of a priceless moment, how does one determine which is of higher value? Are they all worth the same?
It is April fools day, 1997 and the gods have decided that to play a little “trick” on us New Englanders. One of the worst snowstorms of the decade in Massachusetts took place that day. I ride with my cousin, aunt, and uncle to the Springfield hospital, which took a little over two hours for a usually 30 minute drive. We trudge through the snow and threw the hospital doors, by which time we are sopping wet and covered in slush. We take off our coats, check in at the round marble desk, and walk down to the waiting room outside the room where my mother is. She is having her c-section today. Meme and I wait until late that night, trying to entertain ourselves with the limited selection of Dr. Suess books and pamphlets on eating disorders. Finally the kind and tired looking nurse comes to tell us that my mother is fine, and out of surgery, and calls us in to see the baby. I run over to my mom, who is propped up on her hospital bed, with an IV coming out of her wrist. Molly, the new baby is in my mothers arms, wrapped in a blanket with a thin pink hat covering her small head. I crawl into the stiff hospital bed, and my mom puts Molly in my arms. She giggles and smiles up at me. I hold out my hand and she slowly wraps her delicate pink fingers around it. The moment of first seeing my little sister will always stay carved in my mind.
I walk into my grandfathers bedroom, and over to the robins egg blue wall where he has hung all of his pictures. We are in New York City, in his apartment with the rest of my family getting ready for my cousins wedding. I run my fingers along the carved wooden frames that hold the photographs of my Grandmother. My eyes scan past the pictures of her younger years, and to my grandparents wedding photograph. The frame is a thin dark wood, with gold accents around the edges. I had never met my grandmother before she died. Her name was also Betty. I try to imagine what she was like, but the photographs don't offer much help. I walk over to his dresser and see an old, pale colored jewelry box sitting on the top. I open the latch and see dozens of beautiful pearls, gold, bracelets necklaces; all I assumed belonged to my grandmother. It is lined with black velvet like material, and has three drawers, one of which is broken. I am especially fond of one of the bracelets. It is gold, with an old clasp and fits perfectly on my wrist. It has two monogrammed charms, also gold. One is square, and has her initials in the center. The other has her birth sign, a Virgo, and on the back, the date she ran her gold medal track race.
I see my grandfather in the doorway. I jump and close the jewelry box. My grandfather doesn’t mind that I was looking at her old things. He sits me down and says I could keep her bracelet if I would like. I tell him that I’d love to, and I thank him. Then, he starts to tell me about her. From when she came over to America, to when they got married. The bracelet is a reminder of that day, and helps me to keep the memory of my Grandmother.
My grandmothers gold bracelet and the memory of my sister’s birth are both valuable to me for similar and different reasons. Aside from the fact that one is an object, and the other a memory, they both represent people that are very important to me, the bracelet representing my Grandmother, and the memory of my sister being born, obviously representing my little sister. They also represent important and specific days of my life, because the day I got my bracelet is what I remember most about it, and my sister was born on a certain day when I was younger. My bracelet however helps me remember and connect someone I've never met, and the memory of the birth of my sister is when I first met someone that I would be living with.
Through the reading and commenting of the essays that have been written, I've concluded that actual physical objects are in turn, worthless. We all described a scene in which our item was used, and what we remember and describe is the memory of using or being with that object, not the object itself. One doesn't buy a new car so it will sit in their garage and "act" valuable, but to bring it on the road trip to California, or drive it to work everyday. Your expensive lacrosse stick is worth nothing without the memory of scoring the winning goal in the last game of the season, or carrying it to practice every week. It is not the item itself that we cherish, but rather the memories that it hold. They are a mere representation of what we truly value in life.
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