After about two hours of crying, praying, and searching our own souls for answers, my family and I had finally gotten news on Daddy’s condition. He had sustained two gunshot wounds to the back of his head and two to his upper back. His medical team said it was too much for him to survive, and the

My heart beat hot in my ears. That was the only thing I could feel as my life, my perfect little illusion of a life, collapsed in on itself. I knew I should be crying or screaming, but I wasn’t. Instead, words that didn’t make sense left my mouth on repeat: "Stop joking." Over and over again,

“I need your expert opinion on something,” I said a bit hysterically to my mother over FaceTime. “Uh... OK,” she replied, unsure how to react to my desperate mood. She had just picked up the phone on the second ring and I hadn’t even bother to say hello.“Does this look like two pink lines to

I walked into my mother’s hospital room expecting to find her at least cognizant, if not her usual buzzing self. She’d undergone surgery a few months earlier for broken ribs and vertebrae and had dealt with a touch of bronchitis, but both issues were resolved without incident as far as I knew.

My father spent the majority of the last four years of his life in and out of hospitals and nursing home rehab facilities, places that are supposed to be safe for the patient and the families. As his health declined, so did my faith in humanity. I became angry and bitter. Basic needs were