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"It's not so bad. It's not so bad. I'll be just fine." |
Only 48 miles left to go to University hospital. I'm trying to reassure myself; my chanting is humming into the road, a little extra contact for my tires on the invisible interstate. A little extra comfort for my hands gripping the wheel as if I really was in control. The icy puffs blast even harder against my windshield in an attempt to slow my progress even more. Then waiting through the icy night with my relatives. |
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Only 46 miles left to go, and I'm blind. It's half past ten, and much closer to midnight than it was just few miles ago. My thoughts are swirling. I'm not going to make it. There is no way. My family is counting on me, because one of us is dying, but I'm not going to make it either. I pull of the interstate at the next exit. 45 miles to go, but I'm turning back. I'm going home. Only 15 miles to go. |
Creeping along on the county roads, I cringe whenever I see headlights in my rearview. Always big four-wheel drives or SUVs flying through the snowy night, the tricky ice-night blowing them by at fifty-five, making their drivers dream indestructible. Their drivers must think my little front-wheel sedan is a piece of crap creeping along at twenty-five. But I know better. I'm the one who cannot see the edges of the road. We should all know better. But I'm not in control when death is tailgating my thoughts. |