| Inside the ICU
My mom's eyes are the same. I discover, though, that she is no longer perfect. And on January 20, 1992, I am the lone witness when she loses control of our Buick Le Sabre and sends us head on into a telephone pole. I see her broken face and blood on her long, black winter coat and on the front seat of the car. This time someone stops to help. What overwhelms me that day, more than the car accident, is seeing my dad cry. He is sitting on a bench in the hallway of the emergency room. I can see his face from my spot on the metal table as I wait to have my arm x-rayed. I see him wiping his eyes. He is no longer macho. His tough-guy, truck-driver image is gone, and the tears seem to ooze from him uncontrollably. I cannot hear the words my uncle whispers to my dad. As I wait for the technician to return, I pray for my mom's recovery. Meanwhile, she is several rooms and hallways away being worked on by doctors and specialists and nurses. She will live, I reassure myself again and again. She does not have a choice because I need her. And now as an adult, I still need her. I want her to tell me how proud she is when I am honored for my work, how to handle life's let-downs and how important it is to be spiritually grounded. The woman, who fought for her recovery in a hospital room 10 years ago, has to live. The woman, who read bedtime stories to me and taught me how to pray, must live. If not for herself, she must do it for me. "Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the lord my soul to keep If I should die before I wake…" The woman, who taught me about English and sentences and words, must survive. Eventually, with our prayers, love and assistance from doctors and physical therapists, my mom does just that and more. And she comes home just in time for Mother's Day, just in time for summer. React > Inside the ICU |