Erratic. The suffering, a permanent fixture attached to every single member of the family, however, seemed eternal. Situated in a Colombian city controlled by the party night life, I woke up disoriented from the unusual commotion outside my room. I heard my grandmother, a pale woman who can take the dance floor by storm, scream hysterically – muster an impressive amount of energy — for help as her daughter, Martha, was in critical condition. An action was crucial. The entire family moved as a unit as each member rushed to their assigned jobs: contact the ambulance, check Martha’s health, or comfort the children.
The events that followed are a blur to me; however, the memory of feeling hopeless in the car on the way to the hospital, as I passed the gray street lights and observed the pavement of the compact road, remains alive. Swathed in a blanket like a cocoon, my cousin Mariana was, to everyone's surprise, relaxed during the car ride, even to the point of falling asleep a couple of times. That miracle, however, only lasted for a short amount of time, unfortunately. Mewling and puking, Mariana became tense once we stationed ourselves in the waiting room; a small puddle of tears formed near her mother's seat.
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Although I felt uncomfortable, too, I did not physically show it; my thoughts were occupied with the upcoming F.C. Barcelona game. A few moments later, the doctor approached us with a worried look on his face. Before he could even formulate his sentence, my grandmother, who had been fiercely clenching the arms of her seat, knelt and searched for comfort in her religious ideals. Misfortune had come. The idea of death presented itself to me: the idea that the aspects of what characterized a human as a person — their dreams, aspirations, morals, physiological aspects, etc. — physically disappear, but not from the mind of their loved