I’ll never forget that day. It was in February that my father told me my older sister might not be coming home. I was home alone and had been since the very end of January. My dad called me from the Children’s Hospital in Denver, Colorado. It started out with what seemed to be a normal conversation.
“Hi, Dad! How’s Bridgette doing?”
“She’s still goin.’
Just had another seizure. We got some news today.”
“Oh, yeah? What is it?”
“Well, if your sister has surgery, there’s a chance she won’t make it.”
I was eleven at this time, and I remember sitting down in a moment of silence. Then I quickly said, “Goodb ye.” It all started when Bridgette was in her terrible two’s. She had been having problems sleeping during the night. She would wake…show more content…
The waiting room was a terrible place to loiter. The chairs were uncomfortable, grown men wer e snoring in the only two couches available, infants fussed, and my patience withered quickly. I made a few trips to the gift shop and rode the glass elevator several times to get my mind off of everything. My elevator excitement quickly tapered when I not iced a male janitor cleaning up vomit. I took the stairs from there and spent the remaining time in the unbearable waiting room. It had been two hours since I’d been back and hadn’t seen a single doctor enter the room. My sister was in surgery for a total of six long hours.
Then, finally, I saw our doctor’s green pants and shoe covers walking down the hall, and soon enough his face appeared in the doorway. We automatically stood up, anxious to hear the results. The doctor proceeded to sit us back down and informed us, “Everything went smoothly in the surgery and we couldn’t be happier.” Even his overlapping, crooked toothed smile couldn’t put a damper on my day. I was so ecstatic that my sister was finally going to lead a normal life.
After surgery, though
, was a different story. She was completely sedated for almost an hour. We sat patiently next to her bedside in ICU, waiting for her to become conscious again.