I’m sitting on the couch, too scared to touch my phone as it rings with ST ELIZABETH on the screen.
I’m leaving my friend a tearful voicemail because I can’t go to her son’s birthday party - the nurse said it would be in the family’s best interest to get ready to say goodbye.
I’m crossing the bridge from Ohio to Kentucky. This is it, this is it, this is it.
I’m at Luke’s. He tells me to get out, he’s driving. I don’t argue.
In the hospital parking lot I take a step, and another one, and another one, while the phone with my dad’s voice sounds in my ear, gently pushing me along.
I’m reading signs with room numbers. This way, this way, this way.
I’m in room 327, shielded by a not so little Luke, but we’ve never felt so small.
I’m taken aback by the purple lines that cover your hand. I’m as frozen as they are.
I hear you breathe.
6 seconds.
I hear you breathe.
8 seconds.
I hear you breathe.
10 seconds.
I hear you breathe.
15 seconds.
I hear you breathe.
20 seconds.
I hear you breathe.
30 seconds.
I’m counting, and counting, and counting.
I tell Luke to get the nurse, he doesn’t argue.
I press the call light.
I’m saving your life… right?
I’m watching the nurses. Wrong.
I nod as a thank you to the nurses. They close the door to leave us in the room, one light on, our mom gone.
I’m in room 327, shielded by a not so little Luke, but we’ve never felt so small.