So I have spent a majority of the past two weeks in and out of the hospital. I have alluded before that it wasn't all just my injured foot. I was enjoying a nice lunch with my family as we shared stories of our summers together at my parents' house.
Everyone was laughing, talking, gesturing; then my mother was on the hardwood living room floor.
I was confused, like a stranger had slapped me in the face for no apparent reason. There was no logical explanation for my mother to be moaning in extreme pain. Brain could not compute. Error, error.
My cell phone rang me out of my stupor. Why did I pick such an inappropriate ringtone? This really isn't the time and place for Don't Stop Believing. Did someone already know about the horrific medical situation?
"Your sister is on her way to the hospital." Oh, is she going to meet us there for our mother? "No, something is wrong with the baby. She's in a lot of pain." Does she know her mother is currently writhing around on the ground? "No, and I'm not going to tell her. I suppose they'll both be admitted then." How are you being so calm? "Orion, tempus fugit."
Bingo. Activate my polyglot background and a love of dead languages to keep me focused. I rode in the back of the ambulance because I remember my mother's medical history like the back of my hand. I recited her last blood pressure reading. Looks like internal problems. Well, duh, EMT. She made that diagnosis herself not ten minutes before you arrived.
My mother is also an EMT. She knew that she was bleeding internally, and it had gone on for awhile for her to be collapsing. I hadn't informed her that her daughter was heading for the hospital, albeit for different reasons.
I remember streaks of color, bits of hushed conversation, blurs of white hospital coats and glints of stethoscopes. In one room, surgeons were saving a life from death. In another, two lives were being separated. I was like a boomerang, flying from the hospital labor floor to the general surgery ward.
My mother's pelvic wall had collapsed and caused massive internal bleeding. My nine-month pregnant sister started spotting and was diagnosed with placental abruption. Someone had not done their penances or a snarky cosmic joke had taken place. I was nauseated to the point where I began carrying around what would be called the Oh-Oh Bag.
I was struggling with the Why? and the How? Why us? How could this happen? Then I thought of other families worldwide without proper medical care, families that are not as blessed as mine. And it may sound selfish, but it gave me peace.
Luckily, twenty three hours and enough coffee to burn a hole through my diaphragm: I have both a recovering mother, an exhausted sister, and a new nephew that shares of one of my middle names.
Welcome to the world, Rillian Amedeo Perseus Felipe.
You are brightly greeted.