The beeping of a heart monitor antagonistically reverberated off the walls of the clinically white cubicle and throughout my veins, up my legs, and into my own pounding heart. Slowly and menacingly, it developed from a background nuisance into the central plaguing theme of my familial and existential crisis. Tears threatened to stain my cheeks. I gulped inaudibly, and my constricted throat burned meanwhile. The young woman clad in nurses’ garb shuffled aside, revealing my ghostly, still mother. The nurse and I were unfortunate witnesses of a devastating case of carbon monoxide poisoning, yet she claimed Mom would soon return to a life of normalcy.
Internally, I scoffed. I often underrated doctors and their ability to effectively execute the miraculous services they advertised. Even the best doctors could not provide such services as to return her to a state of normalcy, as they rather unsympathetically called it. To the best of my recollection, my mother exemplified physical illness: enormous medicine boxes, pricey prescriptions, and bulky oxygen tanks marked among the major symbols of my early childhood. As a young child, I frequently spent the afternoons alone, either lazing in front of a fuzzy television screen or reading children’s books. Early morning Clonidine and …show more content…
“Mom will probably be alright,” she assured me. “Doctors are here to help, not to fail.” She attempted an encouraging grin, although it bore the appearance of a grimace. My father proceeded to guide us out of the emergency room and, slowly but surely, out of the medical institution. As we approached the entryway, I deeply inhaled, catching and memorizing the wafting scent and bitter burn of generic hand sanitizing gel. I never wanted to forget a night like this. From the corner of my eye, I caught my little sister shaking her head, irritated by my obvious plaguing nostalgia. “Trust them,” she plead. “You have to trust