The light of the lunchroom is overbearing, and being free of it for three months makes it seem even more abrasive. The heat clings to my skin like it needs me to survive. The sound of every person eating and talking slams into my ears without mercy. This sudden overload of stimulus makes my stomach churn. I glance down at my phone, trying to distract myself. There’s a message from my mom, “Naja, call me RIGHT NOW.” My stomach drops. My brain rushes to all the possible things that could have gone wrong. My mom would never call me while I was in school. If she had anything to say, she would text me. The panic makes me shake as I dial her number. As I put the phone to my ear, I realize I won’t be able to hear her through the din in the room. I rush to the hallway, nearly forgetting how to breathe.

“Naja…” is all that is forced through the phone in my mom’s panic-stricken voice.

“Mom…?” I mean to say more. Nothing will dislodge itself from my throat.

Finally, “Your dad is having seizures. They won’t stop. We don’t know what’s wrong. I need you to get to the hospital RIGHT NOW.”

Thoughts race through my mind. I can’t just leave. I can’t even drive. Panic holds me in it’s deadly grip.

Suddenly, I realize what I need to do. I rush back into the lunchroom, pushing my phone into my principal’s face without explanation. Almost as if he already knows what is happening, he takes the phone and hurries to the hallway. I follow behind him as he talks to my mom.

I wait impatiently for him to be done. Finally, he hands the phone back to me. I’m shaking so badly I drop it.
“I’m going to get Mr. Hansen, and he is going to take you to the hospital immediately.” I nod, and he gives me a quick hug before motioning me to follow him.

The ride to the hospital is quiet and agonizingly slow. He throws bits of meaningless conversation at me, but nothing comes of them.

“I’d go faster, but it wouldn’t do anybody any good if we were pulled over.” He informs me.

“I know,” I mumble. I recognize that he is trying to be helpful, but I only have room in my mind to worry about getting to my mom. Every minute I spend in that car is an eternity. The silence pushes down on me, making it hard to breathe.

Finally, we are sitting in front of the emergency entrance. Suddenly, I wish I was anywhere but here. The thought of walking through that door fills me with terror. I don’t want to face what could happen. I want to run as far as I can. Then I think of my mom, right on the other side of this wall, and I take a deep breath and get out of the car. Mr. Hansen tells me it’s going to be okay, even though he can’t know that. It means nothing, but it manages to make me feel better anyway.
“Who are you looking for?” the nurse at the desk asks. Another nurse is standing beside her. I assume she is a nurse that takes people where they need to go. I hesitate, not prepared for questions.
“My dad. Jacob Hallam.” I force his name from my mouth. Their faces soften, and they share a scared look. I feel panic bubble up in me. The standing nurse tells me to follow her, and she walks to the room closest to the desk. My dad is sprawled on the bed, hooked to machines, unconscious. Out of nowhere, my mom flies at me and engulfs me. She’s holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping her up. Relief floods through me. I was so worried about her, and now I can help.

“They haven’t been able to permanently stop his seizures,” she updates me. As if on cue, he begins to seize. Terror grips at me, keeping me frozen where I stand. Nurses quickly usher us out, and my mom begins to cry again. We end up in a waiting room with lights that are too bright and chairs that hurt to sit in. Someone comes to make sure we are okay. I’m trying to comfort my mom, but I know that I cannot do anything to make it better. We sit there, worrying, with nothing to do. My brain takes me through all the horrible possibilities, not letting me go. What if he dies? What if he never wakes up? What if he can’t talk? Can’t move? Doesn’t recognize me? Just when I think I’m going to go crazy, a nurse walks in.

“We can’t stop the seizures. We’re going to transfer him to UW Madison, where he can keep the help he needs. I’m sorry.” She starts to walk away.

“Wait,” my mom calls, “Can we ride with him?”

“You can’t. It’s against the rules. You’ll have to drive yourself.” With that, she leaves.

My mom and I talk, agreeing that she can’t drive in the state she is in. We don’t have anybody who will take us there, and we begin to panic all over again. He’s going to get there and nobody will be there to watch out for him. We call around to everyone we know. We go through phone call after phone call, but nobody will help us.

We are about to give up. Nobody can help. Nobody is here. We don’t know what else to do, and we are going to admit defeat. Finally, someone tells us that they will call a company for us that volunteers to drive people to hospitals in times of emergency. I’ve never felt a greater relief in my life. Somebody else is going to take care of it, and we are going to get where we need to be. The car finally arrives, and we leave soon after they send my dad. The road ahead of me is terrifying, but finally I can rest a little bit knowing that there is nothing else I can do for the moment.