At 9:39 PM, my phone buzzed with a call from my daughter’s friend. “LISA GOT HIT BY A CAR!” I urged her to repeat the words multiple times, struggling to comprehend the gravity of her message. It felt like I was hearing a foreign language.
We were in the city, my husband and I enjoying a romantic dinner for our anniversary while our 16-year-old daughter, Lisa, and her friends attended a concert nearby. Just moments before that call, we had dropped them off, only to have everything take a catastrophic turn.
Fortunately, we were only a short distance away. Arriving quickly at the scene, we saw emergency responders lifting Lisa onto a stretcher. She was conscious, albeit stunned and bloodied. Thank goodness, she was alive.
My husband shouted over the cacophony of sirens, urging me to get the other girls home. Reluctantly, I left, knowing I couldn’t abandon two terrified teens alone in the city. I entered autopilot mode, propelled by sheer adrenaline as I flagged down a cab and boarded a train for an agonizing hour and a half. My phone had died, cutting off any communication with my husband, which only amplified my fear of what could have been.
Despite seeing Lisa with my own eyes, a torrent of dreadful thoughts plagued me: “What if she has internal injuries? What if she doesn’t survive?” I fought against these spiraling fears, reminding myself, “No, she’s okay. She’s talking.” But the dark thoughts kept creeping back, and I endured this mental torment for over two hours.
During that harrowing journey, I recalled a Novena my mother had given me years earlier. I pulled it from my wallet, its crease worn from countless folds, and read it repeatedly. Even with a missing line, I clung to the hope it offered, praying fervently for my daughter’s recovery.
Upon reaching Manhattan, I rushed to the hospital. The sight of her in ICU, surrounded by machines, filled me with dread. Each beep sent my heart racing, and I found myself at the nurse’s desk, seeking reassurance whenever a vital sign fluctuated. The fear was overwhelming, and I felt like I was merely going through the motions, unable to articulate coherent thoughts.
The first hours were a blur, shrouded in confusion. I questioned everything—afraid to ask about my daughter’s condition, terrified of facing the truth. My heart raced for a full 24 hours, and I was acutely aware of every nerve ending screaming with anxiety.
As details emerged, I learned that Lisa had been struck by a car traveling at 40 miles per hour. The doctors were astonished at her survival; it was nothing short of miraculous. She suffered minimal injuries—no broken bones, a potential brain bleed, and some bruises—but she was alive.
Days have passed, and the voice of her friend relaying the shocking news has started to fade. I no longer visualize my daughter being tossed through the air after the impact. Instead, I’m gradually learning to appreciate the fragility of life. This experience has taught me invaluable lessons about gratitude, strength, and compassion.
I realize now that “normal” is a treasure not to be taken for granted. Each day is a gift that can change in an instant, and I strive to cherish every moment with my daughter. I am grateful that she emerged from this ordeal relatively unscathed, with only a limp serving as a reminder of the potential tragedy.
I feel like the luckiest mother alive, holding her closer and appreciating her in ways I never did before. All it takes is the blink of an eye to shift everything, and this truth resonates deeply within me.
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In summary, this ordeal has reshaped my perspective on life, prompting me to embrace each moment with gratitude and love.