Keeping that Brave Face

I got carried off that plane in a stretcher (eventually).

I remember trying to ignore the stares and whispers as I was trundled through the airport. It wasn’t embarrassing per se…it just felt so intrusive, they were commenting on my tragedy on my life (I like my privacy).

We had to rush through the airport, my sister was due back on the same plane that had brought us here (she just needed to accompany me on the flight…thankfully she came out to at least see my mom and dad who were waiting for me with the ambulance).

As soon as I saw my mom, I realized I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell her I was afraid, that my world was falling apart, her eyes were already red as if she was holding back her own tears.

I was loaded up into the ambulance and whisked away to Aysha Memorial Hospital…my mom sitting silently next to me (though I could hear her trying not to wail).

That’s where my brave face came on…and I don’t think I have ever taken it off (I tried once, it did not go well…)

So I started to talk, I told my mom that things will be alright, and that it was nice that she got to talk to my sister, and just this and that, despite being so tired from stress and just general traveling (I am a terrible flier in the best of cases).

I dozed off, and the next time I was conscious, I was being hauled up a rickety elevator to the emergency ward of Aysha Memorial…


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