The Idea of an Essay, Volume 4

Narrative & Memoir 31 even display. With a failing liver, the medical staff decide to check her lactic acid levels, and find them higher than they’ve seen in nearly any patients before, meaning Rebekah is probably sustaining permanent mental damage. Our family walks together outside the large double doors of the unit, where we meet close friends and church family who have come to support us. We gather in a circle and pray, each prayer bringing tears, but building our hope and trust in our heavenly Father. We open the Word, and let it speak into our broken hearts, reading its eternal truths. Later, outside the unit, I sit to eat a cold vegetable stew some friends had brought, but I don’t feel particularly hungry. The food just rests unsettled in my stomach. I had always seen situations like this happening to others, but never believed they could happen to me. God however, can act through anything to draw us closer to Him. Within the day, the medical staff decide Rebekah needs treatment at a more advanced medical facility, and decide to fly her to the Vanderbilt Medical Center. The days following prove to be an emotional rollercoaster with times of great promise, followed by times of desperate hopelessness. We drive to Nashville with dreary tired eyes, arrive at the hospital, and ride the elevator up to the eighth floor. We turn the corner, and see the waiting room where we’ll spend most of our time for the next few days. The stale air hangs heavily in the room, only accompanying the weighty feeling people are already bearing as they enter. The room has a nice window that allows light from the outside, but on this overcast day, the light seems gray, muted. The soft plinking of the gentle rain on the metal and windows outside is the physical representation of this storm our family has been fighting so long. Sometimes pouring, sometimes pausing, but usually slowly falling, continually, the storm not improving, generally getting worse. I breathe wearily, with countless days of stress and poor rest behind me, and untold amounts ahead. I unload my backpack next to a chair in the corner, though it could be any, they’re all empty. No other visitors come this time of year. I head out of the room towards the other end of the hall, through double doors and under an overhead sign reading Medical Intensive Care Unit. My mother meets my siblings and I wearing grief on her face, but trying to stay strong. She leads us with a slight degree of urgency around the unit to my Dad. He looks at us, and