When your phone rings at bedtime or after and it’s one of your siblings, a jolt of lightning shoots through your chest. It’s best to sit down before you say hello. Important to remember to keep breathing.
Whatever niceties you normally say, you say them, even though you know that’s not what the phone call is about.
You hear pieces of words, not full sentences. You try to put it together like a puzzle dumped out the box before you’ve seen the picture on the box.
You want time to move backwards to ten minutes ago, ten days ago, ten weeks ago, ten months ago, ten years ago. You want this not to be happening.
A different kind this time. Ischemic.
Ischemic, not hemmoragic. What does that mean?
A million questions. Very few answers, mostly uncertainty.
Tests to run.
Prayers to offer up. That’s all I can do from this many miles away.
Calls to make.
Decisions. Patience while hoping and praying, always praying, for the patient to improve.
That one word sends the tears cascading and threatens to spill what little logic yet remains all over the floor making a huge mess of things.
Grateful for group messaging to communicate with siblings quickly, easily and clearly.
Hours later you read words that calm the pounding in your head and heart.
Resting. Stabilizing. Talking. Leveling. Normal Function. No clots so far.
You write not in first person because you need the distance created by the preposition “you.”
You write because sleep seems incomprehensible.
You write to have something to do about frayed nerves and the ache burning through you.
You write because surely you want to, should be able to, create a happy ending.
You write as a sort of prayer through the fingers. A keyboard rosary. Each keystroke a pleading for intercession.
“Prayer is not asking. Prayer is putting oneself in the hands of God, at His disposition, and listening to His voice in the depth of our hearts.” ~Mother Teresa