It was a Friday, and despite the chaotic week I had endured, I found myself sinking into a couch with my partner, opting for movies over housework. I kept telling myself I would tackle the chores later. But as my parents returned home, the weight of my decision became painfully clear. Their exhaustion from long workdays was evident, and I could sense the brewing tension over the state of the house—a tension that stemmed from my own neglect.
An hour later, I stormed out into the rain, my boyfriend close behind, tears blurring my vision. The argument replayed in my mind, and a sinking feeling took root within me: this feud might alter my relationship with my parents forever.
When I arrived at my boyfriend’s house, my phone rang. It was my sister, Emma. Before I could greet her, panic filled her voice: “Jenna, you need to come home. Dad’s having a heart attack. The ambulance just left for Strong. Hurry!”
My heart raced as I struggled to process the news. My father, a man who rarely visited doctors, was suffering from a heart attack? Guilt washed over me. How could I cause someone I loved so deeply so much pain? I felt responsible for his condition, all because I had chosen chores over family.
I rushed back to the house to pick up Emma, and we made our way to the hospital. The drive felt surreal, each moment steeped in anxiety as the fight replayed in my mind. What if my last words to Dad were the last I would ever have? “I can’t stand this. I’m leaving.”
How could I bear the thought that instead of expressing love, I had spoken the opposite? My father often joked about my antics, saying one day I might give him a heart attack. Little did I know, that day had arrived.
Upon entering the waiting room, I saw a woman hunched over in despair. Her countenance was one of worry, not strength. I couldn’t help but feel that I was the cause of her pain, the tears streaming down my mother’s face, the tremble in Emma’s hands.
Time passed agonizingly in that waiting room until a doctor clad in green scrubs approached us. My heart sank further as he delivered the grim news: “He suffered a massive heart attack. Only a third of his heart is functioning, and that may not change.”
Silence enveloped us as we processed the information. Then the doctor’s question pierced the air, and my world dimmed: “If anything happens, do you want us to resuscitate?”
My body went numb, and I struggled to breathe. I felt tears streaming down my face as I realized I had distanced myself from my family in my panic. How could he ask such a question about my father? I wanted to scream that I didn’t care what it took—my dad had to live.
Gathering my strength, I walked back to my family and the doctor, who informed us we would have to wait a bit longer before seeing Dad. As we walked down the hall, I caught sight of my father lying in a hospital bed, a few feet away yet feeling like a mile. My mother and sister rushed to him with affection, and I hesitated, burdened by guilt over my role in this tragedy.
Then, he reached for me. Tears flowed freely as I took his hand. Overwhelmed, I leaned down to kiss his forehead. In a groggy voice, he reassured me: “It’s not your fault.”
Despite my disbelief, I nodded. I would always carry the weight of guilt for what had happened, but seeing the conviction in his eyes offered me a glimmer of solace. I realized I may never forgive myself for the circumstances surrounding his heart attack, but knowing he didn’t hold me accountable was a small comfort.