• Non-Fiction

    Epiphany

             When I got the call you were unresponsive, I dropped everything and fled to your house. I saw medics, police officers, and firefighters crowding the street. When I walked through the door, I could hear chaos coming from the hallway. I knew I needed to get to my sisters. As I moved through the house, time began to still and the air began to thin as every detail was branded in my memory. I was afraid to go down the hallway but I gathered the courage to keep moving. I noticed the bathroom door was broken from when Dad kicked it down. I only peeked inside for a second but what I saw still haunts me. You were laying there, lifeless, eyes closed, and surrounded my medics. You had an oxygen mask on and were hooked up to an IV. Dad was helping them carefully lift you onto the stretcher. I turned away and kept walking. I went to my sisters’ room and they looked relieved to see me. They asked me if Mommy was going to be okay and they wanted to know who all those men were. I told them Mommy was very sick but that those men were here to help her get better. Then I sat with them on the bed and held them for a while. It didn’t feel real. It was one of those things you can’t speak about. 

            I heard the ambulance sirens blaring as they left the driveway. I made sure the kids were taken care of then headed to the hospital. I raced down the road, screaming at the sky as I frantically raced to the hospital. I was begging God to save you and praying I wouldn’t be too late. When I finally got there I ran into the emergency room. I saw Dad sitting there quietly. I’ll never forget the look on his face. The doctors told him the medics got there just in time to give her a fighting chance. I put my head on his shoulder and we just sat there in silence for a while. I felt the walls beginning to close in around me so I stepped outside to get some air. But as soon as I stepped into the hall, the walls completely closed in. A nurse yelled out “Doc, I think she’s crashing out!”. There were a group of nurses quickly rolling a hospital bed with several attached monitors and IV drips across the hallway. All I could see was your hair but I knew it was you. I heard someone say “Mom” and then realized it was me. A nurse looked up at me and said “She’ll be okay”. I wondered if you had learned to do the same when you were in nursing school. Comforting the grieving daughter in the hallway while you rushed her mom into the ICU. And then you were gone. As I slid down the wall to the floor, I stared at the wall and started to cry. It was something I just couldn’t speak about. 

            I don’t remember how long we waited. It felt like a lifetime. They called us back and we tried to prepare for the worst. The doctor said they were able to stabilize you and let us in to see you. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. There was a giant tube shoved down your throat to help you breathe. You were unconscious but you were fighting the tube. I held your hand but I couldn’t look at you. They had you transferred to the ICU. None of the doctors knew if you were going to make it not. So for three days we just sat there and waited as we watched over you. I prayed God would give me some sort of epiphany to help me make sense of it all. Or even a sign that would give me some relief. On the second day we found all of the pill bottles and at least a hundred empty medicine capsules in the bathroom. It was everything you had taken that morning. I recalled from the day before when the doctor asked me why my name was on one of the bottles of medication you took. That was when the realization of what you did settled in. The next day, instead of feeling relieved from seeing your chest rise and fall, I just felt cold to the bone. It was something you just can’t speak about….. 

    And then you woke up.

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