Eight-forty on a Saturday evening.
They say that there are some moments in our life that we’ll remember for an eternity. Events that we find branded into our minds, whether we like it or not. We say that we recall these moments down to the minutest detail, and I can attest to that theory quite well. The clear water droplets plummeted from above, splashing onto the windshield. The cars traveled alongside my vehicle, their headlights illuminating the rain, and the night sky contained thousands of dazzling stars above.
Inhale.
My chest rose, my lungs taking in crisp air from the slightly opened window beside me. I turn my head, my eyes meeting with hers’, and then falling about her gorgeous teeth and her rose lips.
Exhale.
My gaze fixated on my rearview mirror, observing my young boy strapped firmly in the backseat, fast asleep.
Inhale.
My eyes grew as wide as the high beams flooded my vision. In an instant, I launched my foot toward the break, clenching my teeth hard, jaw locked firmly shut. The sound of metal colliding terrorized my ears, and my car’s momentum carried us forward. Glass shattered as the vehicle came to a violent halt, causing my body to jerk forward and my face to plant directly into the steering wheel. Two shrieks, one from beside me, and one from behind, erupted into the night. They died down as soon as they began, and suddenly there was no sound at all. My body was rendered immobile, and my eyesight faded away, yet my lips still functioned. They gently parted, but all I could squeak out was a measly “No…” before darkness overwhelmed me.
From that point on, I vaguely recall the noisy sound of bustling people and a white corridor. Beaming lights shone overhead, beckoning for me. I tried reaching out towards it, yet I could not move my arms. My eyes fluttered, and I once more drifted away into sleep.
I would stay in the hospital for several weeks, recovering from various fractures and undergoing multiple surgeries. My body ached, yet my physical pain could not compare to my worries about my family. Although I felt a relief like no other wash over me when the staff informed me that my son had survived, a familiar sense of dread later overtook me as I learned my wife was in critical condition. Those nights took an eternity to pass. I consistently glanced towards the clock on the wall clock, observing the hands tick by minute by minute. Tears would claw their way from my eyes at strange hours of the day, drenching my cheeks in moisture until my cheeks burned red, and the sweat forming in my palms dampened the bedsheets I clenched.
Each time one of the staff or doctors came into my room, my vision darted towards them. I knew they could read my mind. They would give me this this pitiful look when they looked into my pleading eyes. Every time I asked, they would give me the same non-answer.
“I assure you, Mister Johnson, we are doing our best to treat your wife.”
Every day I met with some variation of this response. Yet, I persisted, determined to hear that my wife would be okay. Until one day, one of the staff entered my room. Shakily standing up to greet him, I grinned and extended my arm towards his. That’s when I noticed the sullen look plastered on his face, and my heart descended below my chest. He spoke calmly, methodically, each word exiting his lips in slow motion. My knees quivered, lightly at first, and then more rapidly as he continued. As they eventually buckled, I collapsed to the floor, my chest furiously heaving, each breath I took growing more exasperated than the last.
Several people restrained me and placed me back onto my bed. I think they were trying to give me words of encouragement and sympathy in the process, but whatever they said blended into an incoherent mess. The men and women beside me blurred into unrecognizable forms, and I stared straight ahead. The abhorrently foul stench of perspiration dripping from every orifice of my body dug into my nose and pricked my eyes. My mind, blank as a paper, grew weary, and I finally gave in to the staff attempting to keep me still.
