Reflection / John Shaughnessy

A reminder about the essence of life in one of the last places we ever want to be

It was one of the last places I wanted to be, especially since it meant being there for one of the first persons who taught me about love.

My wife and I were anticipating an enjoyable weekend with one of my closest friends from college when our phone rang on that early Friday evening and I heard the distressed voice of one of my sisters saying, “Something has happened to Mom.” And moments later, I could also hear the voices of emergency medical technicians saying they had to get our mom to the nearest hospital for stroke victims as soon as possible.

In the uncertainty, the fear and the hours that followed, we prayed, asked for prayers from relatives and friends, and waited for news since we live more than 600 miles from the rest of my family. Then later that night came the update that my mom was being transferred by helicopter to one of the premier neuroscience hospitals in Philadelphia.

There also came this succinct, striking-to-the heart text message from my sister, “I think you should come.”

We left early the next morning, wondering if we would be too late. Yet as the hours passed Saturday, there came encouraging reports about my mom’s speech and awareness. And by the time we finally got to see her in person, there was a sense of relief that she was alert and speaking a few words. At the same time, there was a feeling of dread and concern because doctors believed she had not only suffered a stroke but a heart attack, too.

In the five days that followed in that hospital, her five children, their spouses, grandchildren and a niece took turns, two by two, visiting her in her room. And while there were anxious moments there, there were similar ones in the waiting room we shared with other families and friends of people who needed the hospital’s help, too.

The wife of a state trooper cried as she shared how her husband needed surgery for a brain tumor.

On one occasion, the parents of a young man who also needed surgery for a brain tumor held hands as they talked to their son in the waiting room.

At another time, two friends of the same young man joined him on the day before his surgery, walking and talking with him in a constant circuit around that wing of the hospital.

There was also the news of a young woman who had a tumor removed seven years earlier and was now back for a similar surgery.

In all those moments, including the moments we shared with our mom, there was a feeling of being on edge, of being on the edge of life and death.

Yet, there was also the sense that the essence of life always comes down to our bonds, the ones between parents and children, between spouses, between friends, between siblings, between a person and their God.

Five days later, my mom was released from the hospital and transferred to a rehab center where—as of this writing—she has regained some strength, her speech and her feisty spirit.

At 95, she has the hope that God will embrace her peacefully at some point. Still, there is continuing uncertainty at what God has planned for her. But the same is true for the younger people with whom she shared a hospital wing. And the same is true for all of us.

In one of the last places I wanted to be, I was reminded again that our life paths can change in a blink, and that nothing matters more than the relationships we have, the love we share.
 

(John Shaughnessy is the assistant editor of The Criterion.) †