It all unraveled the Sunday after Thanksgiving
The feast had been digested; the cliché family pictures
captured
Everything was “right” in the Kingsley household,
Or at least I thought it was.
My frantic mother appeared in my doorway.
“I think I need to call 911. Go look at your Dad.”
Is this a joke? She
had to be exaggerating.
Ten nerve-racking steps brought me to one hell of a reality.
Every inch of his skin covered in a thick blanket of sweat.
His bulging blue eyes alert, yet unresponsive.
Gasping for any ounce of oxygen his lungs could absorb.
A blubbering humming noise escaping from his lips.
Why was this
happening?
Are we going to be
planning a funeral tomorrow?
Nervous laughter poured out of my mouth like lava,
Then abruptly changed to hysterical tears.
Red and blue flashes of light radiated through the opened
kitchen window.
Multiple strangers put my father’s limp body onto a
stretcher.
God, please just make
him better.
When we arrived at the hospital, the doctor moved towards
us.
I only heard bits of pieces of what the tall worn man had to
say.
“Seven percent chance of survival…”
“A human being can’t be much more ill than this.”
“Brain aneurysm.”
At that moment, I knew life would never be the same.
Months would be spent sitting anxiously in waiting rooms.
A miracle would be given to my family.
The aneurysm didn’t murder my father,
But it killed everything he loved except his family.
