Unable to move a muscle, hearing my mother cry deeply affected me, striking right at my core.
She even shed a tear as she called me by my childhood name.
The realization that I held such significance for someone made me feel that while I could face death another time,
it wouldn't be today. They had asked her to wait in the waiting area,
assuring her they were doing all they could. It felt as if I wanted to rise from the wheelchair, take her hand,
and tell her it was all a misunderstanding—that I was okay.
Struggling for breath, the only emotion keeping me alive was anger. Even though I felt no pain, a strong desire for revenge consumed me.
I reminded myself that I couldn't succumb like this. After the doctor stitched my wounds,
I was sent home with the knowledge that the pharmacy was closed until the following morning—the only place where I could find help.
So, on my way home without medication and in such a vulnerable state,
my poor mother had to endure this once more. Just when I was supposed to be the one caring for her in her middle age,
I found myself feeling like a child again.