“He’s going to be alright.”
As the tears continue to flow down my cheeks, these words hold little comfort.
The young man laying beside me, hooked up to countless machines, is my son.
I feel an arm around me. Someone’s comforting me.
I hear voices.
Someone’s talking to me.
I smile and nod, but the tears continue to flow and I pray another silent prayer.
It all seems a blur now. An indescribable nightmare.
His rhythmic breathing, a reminder that prayers are sometimes answered and as he sleeps, I eat. Hospital food has never tasted so good, so comforting.