As I walk in to ask for my daughter, the harsh, bright light hurts my eyes. The hospital smells fill my nostrils as emergency room personnel rush from one area to another. Bells and whistle noises unique to hospitals assail my ears and further alarm me. I’m led to the green curtains which surround my 44-year-old daughter, Judy. She is lying there very still, on oxygen, her face white with fear. Her husband, Xavier, is standing by her with worry all over his face. I lean over my daughter and she quietly says to me, “Mommy, I can’t feel anything.”
Carole Horan has been writing off and on for a few years. Lately she is interested in micromemoir.