I'm in the huge adult ER at Stanford hospital, wrapped up in multiple blankets but cold to the bone due to fear. I call my mom over duo. "There's no open beds," I explain. "And they want to ship to another hospital. I might be able to convince them that I'm okay to send home with you if you come and get me. I know it's a lot to ask with the drive and all...." It's a tricky balance. I spent fifteen minutes explaining to them how I was crazy enough for admission into H2, Stanford's locked ward, but now, magic, I was sane enough and safe enough, to go home by myself. And it was late. It would be a three hour drive for my mother to come get me.
"What's going on?" My father asks, showing up in the background. It was a question out of annoyance.
My mother explains.
"I have to work in the morning," he replies as he walks through the room.
It was like being hit with dead weight. It knocked you off balance, and it hurt, leaving you breathless. Did he care? Did he want to care?
Would he care when it was far too late?
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