Awake

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My heart is beating steady. I'm still groggy, and my throat is dry. I start to hear the shuffle of people around me; and so, I open my eyes.

My lids are heavy, and at first I'm only able to open them a sliver; then a crack. Then just my right eye fully.

"Mom?" I say barely above a whisper.

"Oh my God! Oh! Thank God!" my mom says and rushes over to my side. I take a look around the room; white light pours in. It's a sunny day. My father stands from his chair and walks over to my side. He makes a joke.

"What do you do for an encore?"

He does that when he's uncomfortable. I can see some water welling in the bottom of his eyes.

"She's awake," says my sister. I try to open my left eye to see where she is. The other side of the room is adorned with teddy bears, flowers, balloons, and cards. My friend peeks her head in the room from out in the hall. Her face is white; and she's holding tightly on to her baby. A moment later another friend of mine walks in -- and another.

I try to blink away the film on my eyes so I can have a better look.

"My head is fucking killing me!" I whine.

They laugh.

"Yep. She's back!" says my sister as she walks over to the other side of the bed. The doctor walks in a moment later and uses one of those light pens to look into my eyes. He speaks to my mom, telling her how my recovery is going to be. My mom nods furiously.

My dad walks over and kisses me on the forehead. My friends start to cry.

I am loved.

A moment later I begin to see the white and pink light dance between all of us; as the doctors and nurse do some perfunctory assessments. I'm not exactly sure what happened -- but I know that from here on in everything is going to be ok.

I make a motion with my hand to get my mother's attention.

"What? What is it?" she asks.

I try to motion scribbling with my hand; but I'm too weak.

"I think she wants something," my sister says.

"What do you want? I'll get it for you." says my mom.

"A pen..." I say. "And some paper."

"Maybe it's difficult for her to speak?" offers one of my friends.

"No," I say with a clearer voice, "I think I'm ok to talk -- just, you know, really tired. No, I want to jot some stuff down before I forget." I tell them.

My sister hands me a pen and pad that were next to the phone, on her side of the room.

"Don't push yourself," she says to me.

"I'm not -- I just really have the sudden urge to write." I say.

And the doctors and nurses continue to fuss, while I jot down some ideas before they slip away.