“Which son?”

“I don’t know.  Just hurry to St. Francis Hospital!”

He left and I shut the door.  I walked slowly towards my closet wondering what to wear to the hospital.  My mind seemed frozen as I slowly and methodically slid the clothes on their hangers deciding what to wear.

Suddenly it hit me.  HURRY!  HURRY!  I put on whatever my hand touched next, and phoned someone to come to stay with my daughter.  I left the door unlocked for the babysitter, and drove at maximum speed to the hospital.  I parked the car in the first available space I saw and ran to the ER, where the double doors opened automatically as I approached.  Running in frantically, I was met by a nurse who recognized me and thrust bloodstained clothes and hiking boots into my arms.  I recognized them as belonging to my 16-year old.  She warned, “You have to get to the surgery waiting room as fast as you can!  The surgeon is waiting for you.  Your son is still alive!”

“Alive?”  “Alive?”  I questioned.  This couldn’t be happening.

Another nurse beckoned from the waiting elevator which I ran into breathlessly, hugging the bloody garments of my son.  She entered the elevator with me, while advising in an instructional manner, where I should go when I left the elevator, which halls to follow until I got to the surgery section.  She added, “Good Luck!  God bless you!”  as I left the elevator and ran while hugging the heavy boots and bloodstained clothes as if they were my son.

©Pat Montesano 2003 All Rights Reserved.