In the Emergency Room

            Seven months.  Well seven months and one week to be more exact.  It was unnatural.  Everyone had said nine months.  I had always read nine months.  I believed nine months.  I wasn’t prepared for seven months and one week.  This was supposed to be the happiest moment in my life wasn’t it?  Wasn’t I supposed to be happy about bringing life into the world?  This was supposed to be the end goal, it was supposed to make my life meaningful.  This was supposed to give me something that I would love more than anything else, but it was about to take that and my wife away from me.

            The only thing that filled my ears was the incessant ticking of the analog clock on the wall.  It marked 3:00 in the morning.  I was supposed to be tired.  But I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t even think of sleeping.  The only thing I could do was stare at the bland gray walls surrounding me.  My mind wandered and as I thought, pondered, and speculated, my mind slowly turned against me and became my enemy.   It came up terrible scenarios and outcomes that paralyzed me with fear for my baby and my wife.  What if my wife died and the baby didn’t?  What about the other way around?  What if the baby had terrible defects from how premature it was? These thoughts swirled around me.  The gray, asylum-like, walls were beginning to close in on me.  These thoughts were driving me insane. 

            I allow my eyes to finally drift back to the annoying clock and now it marked 4:00 in the morning.  It had been three hours since anyone had told me anything.  I was left out here alone without knowing anything.  Our friends left to go home and sleep.  The doctors told us that they would know in the morning what was going to happen.  All our friends had all left, but not me, no I couldn’t leave.  My wife’s sister was on her way, but it was a long drive.  My parents were coming, hers were coming too, but it was a long drive for them as well.  I guess we hadn’t thought about this when we moved so far from them.  God, what will they think when they get here?  I’m the one that did this to her.  I’m responsible.  They’ll hate me if she dies.  I’ll hate myself if she dies.  Everyone was planning on this baby.  It was going be the first grandkid, first nephew, the first one in this generation of the family.  So many things had been prepared and bought in anticipation for this moment.  The new nursery, heaps of new toys, clothes, pacifiers, diapers, and wipes, all for nothing, going to waste.  What will they think?  This is all my fault.  I’m responsible.

            Tick, tick, tick, now the clock marked 5:00 in the morning.  My whole body hurt.  Maybe it was from the exhaustion, or the hunger, or stress, but probably a combination of all three.  The expansive insipid wall suddenly changed.  The door in the corner opened and revealed an exhausted blonde woman, wearing a spotless white coat, and wielding a clipboard. 

            “Mr. Crawford?” she said arduously

            I tried to stand up as fast as I would but my legs did not work properly after being idle for so long.  I slowly stood up but could not bring myself to respond.  I was terrified to hear what she had to say.  I almost did not want to know.  Almost.

            “Yes?” I responded weakly.

            “You can see your wife and daughter now.”

Vacation

            The metal frame shook and made deafening sounds as it hurdled through the air above the blue waves. The tiny airplane dropped twenty feet and my stomach was forced into my throat. Blood surged to my head and caused unbearable nausea. My head throbbed and the whole room spun, good thing they provided puke bags. This turbulence was unbearable. I could barely hear myself think. I never trusted these things. I thought I was going to die at least 5 times every time my family flew in one of these death machines. 

            Finally, after almost forty painstaking minutes, the beaches became viewable through the tiny windows. The lush, verdant forest came into view and the beaches became a beige outline of the expansive emerald trees. Suddenly the airplane ride didn’t seem so bad. The plane started its descent as we neared the gray scar across the island.  I could already see the small crowd of people congregated around the small building that served as the airport.  We made a bumpy landing and slowed to a stop alongside the crowd. I could see their ecstatic faces and them waving ferociously. The side door creaked as the pilot let us out.

“Here we go,” said my mom sadly, and stepped out.

“You’re so big!” was the first thing I heard after exiting. I looked to see who had said it and saw my Aunt Fiona with a huge grin across her face. She gave a huge bear hug and directed me over to my other assorted relatives.  I greeted, hugged, and kissed all of them in exchange for amazed looks and comments about how much I’ve grown and how handsome I am now. I said thank you over and over again and my face started to hurt after keeping the smile on it for so long. Then my grandpa approached me with a stupid smirk on his face, followed by him saying, “Don’t listen to them, you’re still ugly.” He laughed hysterically and pulled me towards the car.

“Let’s load up your shit and get out of here.” I loaded the various bags into his white suburban and hopped in the shotgun. We left the crowd behind and headed on the unpaved roads into the woods.  We drove through the green tunnel made by the trees and tried to as much wildlife as possible. Turkeys, deer and the occasional beaver could be spotted alongside the road and my grandpa would shout and point and become overly excited at the spotting of each one. 

            We rounded the final curve suddenly all of the trees were gone. They were replaced by the expansive bay and the shimmering, cerulean waters.  The beach homes that lined the golden shore passed us by until we reached the triangular, wooden house that was lined with windows that we called ours. 

Rich

            Richard Davis, Rich for short, was a white, mild, middle-aged man. He lived in his childhood neighborhood, Rogers Park. Rich’s favorite place to eat was Patio Beef, where he got the same, two hotdogs and a drink for four dollars every Tuesday and Thursday at approximately 12:45 PM. He jogged the same route every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, going from his house on Arthur and Greenview to Senn Park, where he used to love playing on the stationary red train cars as a child.

            It was 12:30 on a Thursday and Rich was in line at Patio Beef. “Ah Rich! Good to see ya. The usual?” asked Jerry, Patio Beef’s owner who Rich had become close with.

            “That’d be great Jerry,” said Rich flatly.

            Rich walked over to the corner of the restaurant to his usual spot.

            “Two teenagers shot! A wave of violence spreading across the city!” screamed the television. 

            “How terrible,” said the man across from Rich, “There must be at least three stories just like this every week.”

            The man was old. His eyes were soft and surrounded by wrinkles stretching across his whole face. He wore a gray jacket with three buttons in the front. He wore relaxed khakis that covered the tops of his large brown boots. He had an expressionless face except for the light in his eyes that made it always seem like he was smiling.

            “Everything seems darker these days,” replied Rich grimly.

            “Rich!” shouted Jerry, calling him to get his food.

            Rich grabbed his hotdogs from Jerry and got out his four dollars. Rich handed him the four dollars but before Jerry grabbed it, he noticed the slim tan line on Rich’s fourth finger on his left hand. 

            “This one’s on me, Rich,” said Jerry.

            “Thanks, Jer.”

            Rich walked back to his table and the TV was still blaring.

            “13 year old boy saves 4 people from burning building! Teenager proclaimed a hero!” roared the television.

            “The news needs to cover more stories like this. Ones that don’t ruin my day when I hear them,” said the old man.

            “There just aren’t as many happy stories as there are sad ones,” Rich said grimly.

            “That’s not true, just today people focus more on the ugliness in this world than the beautiful. All it takes is a change of perspective.”
            Rich thought about what he had just said while eating his first hot dog. He took the last bite, took a drink of his Pepsi, and asked, “How do you know? How are things beautiful? Life is just made up of 10-minute happy moments with hours of dullness and despair to fill in the rest of the time. The question is if the happy moments are worth it.”

            The old man’s eyes wrinkled even more as smiled at Rich. He thought for a minute then responded, “I’ve had my fair share of both of the good feelings and the bad feelings. I’ve been anxious, scared, confused, and annoyed but I have also been joyful, fascinated, amazed and invigorated.  Every single one of those emotions is part of the human experience that you and I are so lucky to be a part of. You were lucky enough to be given the gift of life, so you might as well experience it all, the lows and the highs. Take it from me because I’ve been through it all, there will always something better to come.”

            Rich finished his second hotdog, went to take a drink of his Pepsi, but it was all gone. “Thank you,” said Rich, ”What’s your name?”

“I’m Richard, Rich for short.”
            Rich laughed, “Nice to meet you Rich, I’m Rich as well.” Rich got up and threw away his trash. He walked towards the door to leave, but looked back before stepping out. The old man’s eyes wrinkled again as he gave him a charming smile. Rich turned and stepped outside. The air entering his lungs invigorated him instead of it feeling like a burden as usual. Colors seemed more vibrant, noises were less annoying and Rich felt the corners of his lips rise into a smile and he felt the corners of his eyes wrinkle.  He had gained a change in perspective.