More often than not, she writes in the third person; it makes her feel anonymous yet powerful. When the word I becomes she, honesty grows wings.
She thought that seeing her sister drenched in her own blood and her future husband in a hospital bed crying in pain would be enough turmoil for one month. Unfortunately everything comes in threes.
As she walked into yet another hospital room she held her breath. Her eyes focussed on her father, who lay asleep in a blue gown. The tube in his mouth sat quietly, steadily, allowing him to breathe. He looked like a different version of her father, his toes weren’t twitching and he was far too still. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed the rest of her family wading tears. This would be the trillionth time she cried this month. Instead of allowing them to take over she pressed them back into her head. She could be strong.
Over the next few days she’d come to understand that the saddest sound she’d ever hear would be her mother crying. She’d realize that it would take a long time for her own heart to stop hurting.
She went through the motions and did her best to help out wherever she was needed. She did her best to keep it together. She went to work, she focussed, she repeated.
Yes, she crumbled.
Yes, she felt agitated, angry, and guilty (for what she didn’t know).
Yes, she cried streams that turned into rivers that bled into oceans.
But she was humbled and aware of the fragility of life. Spending the better part of a month in and out of hospitals will do that.
The best way out is always through.
She went through it all but with luck and silver linings around every corner. Her father’s quintuple bypass saved his life. Because of her fiancé’s liver donation, his mother would live. And her sister, who hemrroaged for hours, at this very moment, is chasing around her toddler with an infant in her arms.