On October 15, 2015 I received my first acceptance to medical school. In the sea of congratulations, I felt this overwhelming desire to tell you my little girl. I got home, and placed you on the floor. “I got into med school!” You ignored me and squirreled away when I attempted to steal a hug from you. I wanted to tell you then all that I will tell you now - that this one day will likely melt into the tapestry of my life, but today...it means everything.
To understand, I have to take you back to the days when I was little, much like you, and I would pretend to listen to my mother’s heart, check her eyes and ears. I cannot remember my mother playing with me as I do with you, but this, the “playing doctor” I do remember.
On September 15th, 2003, my mother and I went to her gynecology appointment. I was 15 but had been translating for her medical visits since I could speak, well used to interpreting jargon-laden medical practicalities into laymen Spanish. The appointment differed little from others; her male gynecologist was especially charming. “She’s going to be a doctor,” my mother said proudly, pointing in my direction. Her physician looked at me with an excited expression. After my mother’s visit, he allowed me to see some slides of yeast and listeria and I was convinced that I would be a doctor, but my dreams of catching babies did not match with the day to day realities of OB/GYNs.
We left the appointment and it had started to drizzle. We were running late for church that evening, but my typical speed racer mother drove at a sluggish place. “The roads tend to be slippery with these first rains,” she said. After what felt like ages, we got off of the freeway. I had not buckled my seat belt, which was a rarity for me. I chose that moment to buckle in securely. My mother looked at the clock and laughed, that final laugh. “We’re actually going to get to church on time.” She eased the car towards the edge of the ramp and our vehicle did not stop. Her driver’s side door was slammed into be a large truck.
I could say more on crying for my mother to wake up, watching the firefighters pry the metal to remove her from the vehicle, watching the EMT pump air into her lungs over and over and over again. I could say more on praying at the top of my lungs while the ambulance driver looked at me as though I was possessed. I could say more...but that is a story for another time. For now, I will fast forward to the ICU lounge, where dozens of families and friends waited to hear of news of the ultimate fate of their loved ones. We formed strong connections with those who shared in tragedy, evidenced by prayer circles filled with fervent calls to our all powerful God along with echoes of hope. We shared highlighted Bible verses and managed to laugh through the pain. I drank a lot of the coffee that always seemed to be in high supply. For a month, I did my homework on these chairs and watched more CNN than I have in the time since then.
To be continued...#workinprogress
izzy806
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
dededos
titsay
origamiaround