Comments/Constructive Criticisms please?

brummytom

Hi, first time posting in this board. Basically this is a piece of original writing I had to do for my English Coursework - we had to write about a vivid memory; thus the following is all completely factual (so I don't want to change too much of the story itself, but if you've any suggestions, please say )

I'll warn you though, it's slightly depressing :pac:

“That nurse looks like a fella,” roared Nan, in her unique thick, gravelly Dublin voice, more akin to someone who’d led a life of drink, drugs and rock and roll than a retired porter from Tallaght.

The day before, she was rushed in to hospital. It was my brother’s birthday and, instead of a party and jollities, we watched her being carried out to the ambulance, much against her will. We were told it was unlikely she would go home again, and so were amazed, when we visited her the next day, by how much she’d improved in just twenty-four hours.
Mom left the ward and Nan and I prayed together; we said the Hail Mary and she drank some holy water, blessing herself. I held her hand and stared out of the damp, dingy window, wishing that the moment would never end. In my mind, what I was really praying for was that God would look after her, come what may.

This day came after a tremendously hard summer. After a blood clot being discovered in Nan’s leg, doctors raised concerns about her general health, the question of cancer was raised.
It came to a head on one sunny July day in Weston Super-mare. Mom received a phone call from my uncle Brendan confirming their worst fears. As she quietly whispered “How long?” the tears started to roll gently down her cheek. I felt my heart plummet. I gazed at the sun-laced fields and the eternal beauty of the world as it seemed all my happiness was slipping away. I recollected every memory of Nan I could summon to mind. I tried so hard to suppress every emotion in my head, knowing that everyone else in the car, excluding mom, was oblivious to what the coming weeks would bring.

Indeed, the weeks that followed pushed the family to the limit. When Nan came out of hospital at the start of August, I stayed with her to make sure she didn’t take a turn for the worse. Seeing how much she was struggling to do simple things like use the telephone or kettle worried me deeply. Of course, I understood that cancer would eventually limit her functions but she seemed to be deteriorating so suddenly.
Visits from doctors, hospice workers and the parish priest, Fr. Gabby, became common – but didn’t ease the worry or grief. As my uncle Sean returned from a three-week work trip to India, I was angered by how increasingly complacent he seemed in regard to Nan’s illness and ever-nearing death. “Bring her back something really special Sean,” pleaded mom, on the phone to him while he was abroad, “I mean it – really special. Please,” What was the gift she received? A multipack of ‘Benson & Hedges’ - as if cigarettes hadn’t done enough for her.

As the weeks passed, I realised just how oblivious my Nan was to her condition and future and was stunned. She and mom sat in her garden talking, I heard her quietly say “I’m feeling better today Yvette. You know, I think the cancer might have gone,” once again I saw my mom’s eyes well up with tears as the wind violently hissed around the house.

To try and ease pressure on my mom, after we’d taken Nan in to our home to give her the best care we could, we went for a four-day break in Devon. Far from clearing my mom’s mind, she fretted constantly and felt as though she had abandoned Nan when she needed her most. We spent time at mom’s friend Debbie’s house near Exeter. As Debbie, her husband and my parents, along with myself, sang and played Irish songs on the accordion, I again thought of Nan – I felt guilty for enjoying myself when we should have been with her.
The second day there, me and mom sat on the beach, surrounded by warm, soft sand, and the clear blue sea and sky, discussed funeral hymns. Little did we know that in exactly a week we’d be doing very much the same thing, under very much different circumstance.

When we returned back to Birmingham, the first place we went was Nan’s house. I found her sitting in the middle of her stairs, looking lost and frightened. She seemed like a different person and I couldn’t bear it.
We took her back to ours where she stayed until Michael’s birthday, the Friday. On the Sunday, we got a call from the hospital saying Nan had taken a “turn for the worse” – suffering a very severe stroke. The whole family was called and stayed at her bedside. To us, the priority was to get a priest in to give her the last rights. Fr Mellor, a lovely, friendly, jolly (but also respectful) man arrived and prayed with us; Nan trying to join her hands although completely paralysed down her left side.


“Mom, it’s Tom’s birthday today” whispered Mom, in Nan’s ear. This was now the Monday, three days after Nan had been admitted. I tried my best to keep my spirits up and enjoy the birthday – selfishly wishing and hoping Nan would stay alive through my birthday. As we left her that evening to go for a meal, I fully expected to return the next day. “Bye Nan” I muttered, a lump in my throat preventing me from fully saying goodbye. I stroked her hair and walked off, trying to hold myself together.

“Tom – Get up! I want to get to see your Nan,” Mom bellowed the next morning. For my birthday I’d got a book of Dave Allen, an Irish comedian’s, material. I was reading through it and was in no rush at all to get to the hospital. “Yeah, just a minute” I answered, still not intending to hurry myself.
Suddenly the phone rang. I leapt from the bed and dressed myself. I didn’t even stop to think about why I was doing it – but deep down I was expecting it. On the phone was the hospital again.
“Has she taken another turn?” asked my mom, wishfully.
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that” replied the voice on the other end of the line. My mom burst out crying and screamed at me. “I wanted to get to the hospital and waited for you!” I hugged her and she broke down.
“We need to tell Sean and Bren” I reminded her. We went downstairs and rang my uncle Sean. Everything was explained in only two short words:
“It’s happened.”

Mom and I walked across the road to the hospital. I felt completely numb. We entered the hospital and the smell of death overwhelmed me. As we made our way up to the ward, my mom thought it better if I stayed outside. I agreed, and went into the visitors toilets to be alone. Burying my head into my hands, I felt my tears gently trickle down my cheeks, the trickle gradually turning into a pour. Tidying myself up, I went back to mom and put my arms round her, not letting her see how I felt so as not to make her more upset. My uncles and aunties arrived in turn to say their final goodbyes. Thanking the nurses, we all went to our house where we discussed funeral arrangements. “Return to sender?” I jovially suggested, as a ‘hymn’ – Elvis being Nan’s favourite singer.

I made my way up to my room where I found a birthday card from Nan. Her being so ill, it was still unwritten, but she’d left forty pounds inside. From shopping with her before, I knew how much care she took choosing cards; I knew the message would mean more than her own words.
Inside, it read “Have a happy birthday and a very special year.” Well, I think I managed the latter.

K-Ren

It's pretty personal for an English essay, and because it's mostly factual, there's a lot of 'telling' going on- as I reader I think it would strengthen the piece with more description, along the lines of this :

"I gazed at the sun-laced fields and the eternal beauty of the world"

That gave me an image, it struck me the most in the whole piece- so more of that I would say, to show us the true vividity of the memory.

pickarooney

I wouldn't change much at all, Tom, apart from cutting out a few adjectives here and there. It's a strong piece; the details make it.

You might want to break up the odd sentence to give it a little more impact, but it's entirely up to you. This kind of thing, I mean:

“That nurse looks like a fella,” roared Nan, in her unique thick, gravelly Dublin voice, more akin to someone who’d led a life of drink, drugs and rock and roll than a retired porter from Tallaght.

“That nurse looks like a fella,” roared Nan, in that unique voice of hers - thick, gravelly Dublin, more akin to someone who’d led a life of drink, drugs and rock and roll than a retired porter from Tallaght.