My son James was awake but simultaneously, he wasn’t. I look down to him…He seemed lifeless to me. Time measured in centimeters as I wait for him to open his eyes. I push my hand through my hair and not paying attention to anyone else…anything else. I remember my reaction to the house fire five years ago, the car crash four years ago, the court case three years ago that I never went to, the letter from the bank I received two years ago. I document everything I experience and I have documented the house fire, the car crash, the court case, the letter, and the moment when my son had almost died; one year ago. Every emotion I have right now: anger, nervousness, and fear. I watch the heart monitor with its slow beeping and the colors. The moments mock me as I look up and down, left and right, as I spin three-sixty degrees, and I sit and let my arms with bent elbows rest upon my thighs. Is my son going to live? I don’t want to lose him and I’d rather die before he does. If he dies or I die, one of us is going to live alone. There is nothing I can do to make what I want to happen, happen because I’m not God, I’m not Harry Potter, I don’t have magic powers, I’m not a miracle worker…My son’s eyes are not open and I fear that I would have no one. I’m afraid that I’m going to be a hermit the rest of my life and no one will speak a word to me anymore because I will lock myself in my old two story house and not even open the door for my mail, I’ll certainly not open my door for little kids who dress up in a one day fantasy just to get sugar rushes and teenagers who will chuck eggs at my house and throw rolls of toilet paper all over the trees in my front yard. Every moment I think about these things I look to James and his eyes aren’t blinking but he’s hanging on to life. Every time I think about these things I think of what my life would be like if I didn’t have him or he didn’t have me. I stand back up and walk to James on the hospital bed where hear his voice. His shining hazel eyes looked to me, he took my hand and he said to me with a single tear running down his cheek,

“My last breath is for you, Mom. I know it’s my time to go. I did want I needed to do,” he breathed in air for one last time, “and that was to make you happy…” the monitor showed a flat line. I kiss his forehead and say,

“Good-bye, James…You were a smart boy. No it’s not your time to die. You’re only twelve years old…”
My fear came true. No one has spoken a word to me, because now, I am a sixty year old hermit that lives alone in my two story house.