I just saw you five hours ago, Rob. You were tanned and handsome. I touched you, I hugged you, we talked. And now I’m standing in a small room in the hospital, waiting for the doctor to come in to talk with me. The nurses won’t tell me where you are. They won’t tell me what is happening. But I know it’s bad. They wouldn’t have put your Dad and me into this private room if it wasn’t bad.
We were just getting ready for bed when we got the call. Dad answered it, and when he turned to look at me, his face was pale . . . he looked scared. “Rob’s been in an accident,” was all he needed to say. We both headed to the car and to whatever was waiting for us. We were quiet as we drove, I turned to him once and said, “He has to be okay, Chuck. He just has to.”
When we got to the hospital, your friends were waiting outside by the doors to the emergency room. They said you had been in an accident. They were all talking at once, their phrases were choppy and jumbled. All I heard as I rushed by them was “accident . . . motorcycle . . . really bad.”
The doctor comes in. He takes my hand and sits me down. He tells me it’s bad. He tells me that you probably aren’t going to make it. He tells me to pray. It’s about ten-thirty at night and your accident happened at twenty-two minutes after nine.
I tell him I want to see you . . . he tells me they are still trying to save your life. So all I can do is wait.
The waiting room begins to fill as our neighbors, our friends, and your friends rush to be with us. I can barely breathe…I have just enough breath to pray for a miracle.
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