“Fear encounters your mind. Pain weakens your strength. You are no where to be found. You’re heart beats to the rhythm of your feet, dashing across the rubber field. You hear your heart beating ‘th-thump, th-thump.’ You can’t stop, you are out of control. You glance around, and yet you don’t hear a sound. You feel sweat drip down your neck, you are invulnerable. The clock’s still clicking, it’s the final countdown. You see in the distance a red light beyond the horizon, you can’t stop. You just keep on going. You are the tiger. You can beat this marathon .People pressure you to ‘go, go, go!’ Family demands you ‘no, no, no!’ You wonder why they are so unsupportive; after all, they are your family. Maybe they see the sickly expression loaded on your face, or your courage slowly fading away. But you keep going to the distance. Tight stress fills your calf muscles to quite. But you listen to your heart, ignoring your brain. You keep running. Running, and running. However, your heart feels to pump faster and faster with every breath you take. You get worried. This is critical.”
Well, that’s how my dad felt one night on January 20th to be exact. I was unconscious when this delirious episode occurred. Yet, I have heard many stories about my fathers’ night from my mother and sister. It went something like this…
Hell, death, fear had risen from my mom as she lies on the bed, helpless. Watching my father suffocate, and yelping for air. She saw he had a phone in his hand; he deliberately called 9-11. He was running out of breath, struggling to tell the operator our home address. Tears fell from my moms cheeks as she clenches on to our family dog, Shatzi, was mental support. Why she didn’t wake me up, I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want to add stress on me, or scare me, because only god knows that wouldn’t help. Red, and blue lights fill the neighborhood with worry, and integrity. Two young firemen race upstairs to grab my dad, and then they carefully and slowly accompanied him to our family living room. My mother follows the medics into the kitchen, where she now comforts Shatzi, whom is barking a riot. Apparently these firemen were “on fire” as my mom would put it which is a 70’s word for “hot.” Yet, I don’t know how “on fire” they were so I can’t really describe them so well. Meanwhile, my dad is over in the living room slowly calming down and being drugged up by some shots the firemen have inserted. They told my mother everything should be alright, and if the same problem occurs we should know what to do. They also included that he could very well have died from the scene; we must take good care of him. Morning day arrives. The sun just barely hits the horizon and I am woken up with a bustle on my door. My mother told me everything about the nights’ episode and how my father is going to be okay. She didn’t include that what my dad had was life threatening. I think it’s because she didn’t want me to worry. Whatever reason it was, it must have been good. To this day, my father still suffers from the internal nerve shortage. I found out some background knowledge about it, and as long as it is taken care of immediately my father will be just fine.
“The red light gets closer with each step. You can hear the crowd cheering for you. You start to think ‘I can do this!’ The bleacher mania comes in sight, you don’t stop, and you just keep trying.” My father told me when his heart has another episode it feels like he is in a marathon. I wonder what that feels like…
Well, that’s how my dad felt one night on January 20th to be exact. I was unconscious when this delirious episode occurred. Yet, I have heard many stories about my fathers’ night from my mother and sister. It went something like this…
Hell, death, fear had risen from my mom as she lies on the bed, helpless. Watching my father suffocate, and yelping for air. She saw he had a phone in his hand; he deliberately called 9-11. He was running out of breath, struggling to tell the operator our home address. Tears fell from my moms cheeks as she clenches on to our family dog, Shatzi, was mental support. Why she didn’t wake me up, I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want to add stress on me, or scare me, because only god knows that wouldn’t help. Red, and blue lights fill the neighborhood with worry, and integrity. Two young firemen race upstairs to grab my dad, and then they carefully and slowly accompanied him to our family living room. My mother follows the medics into the kitchen, where she now comforts Shatzi, whom is barking a riot. Apparently these firemen were “on fire” as my mom would put it which is a 70’s word for “hot.” Yet, I don’t know how “on fire” they were so I can’t really describe them so well. Meanwhile, my dad is over in the living room slowly calming down and being drugged up by some shots the firemen have inserted. They told my mother everything should be alright, and if the same problem occurs we should know what to do. They also included that he could very well have died from the scene; we must take good care of him. Morning day arrives. The sun just barely hits the horizon and I am woken up with a bustle on my door. My mother told me everything about the nights’ episode and how my father is going to be okay. She didn’t include that what my dad had was life threatening. I think it’s because she didn’t want me to worry. Whatever reason it was, it must have been good. To this day, my father still suffers from the internal nerve shortage. I found out some background knowledge about it, and as long as it is taken care of immediately my father will be just fine.
“The red light gets closer with each step. You can hear the crowd cheering for you. You start to think ‘I can do this!’ The bleacher mania comes in sight, you don’t stop, and you just keep trying.” My father told me when his heart has another episode it feels like he is in a marathon. I wonder what that feels like…
