Jeff tore through the streets, slicing through every yellow light with desperate urgency. My heart pounded as I rested my hand near our 4-month-old son, praying we’d make it safely.
His erratic driving as we sped toward the hospital felt like a blur of chaos and dread. His father was on life support in the ICU, and the frantic call from his mother begging him to hurry was too much to handle.
Another light came into view, solid red, but Jeff didn’t stop.
The hospital loomed ahead. Suddenly, a dump truck roared through the intersection in front of us, forcing Jeff to slam the brakes. The two-door Chevy pickup jolted violently as the brakes screeched against the sudden stop. My body lurched forward, the vibration rattling through me. We came within inches of disaster.
I burst into sobs, begging him to calm down, but he didn’t respond.
He kept going until we arrived and threw the truck into park and bolted toward the hospital’s double doors. My hands shook as I unbuckled the car seat, lifting our son and chasing after my 22-year-old husband. By the time I reached the room, a sick, heavy feeling settled in my stomach.
Jeff stood at the foot of the hospital bed, his hands clutching his father’s lifeless feet as he wept. The sound of his anguish filled the room, as I stood frozen in the doorway holding our son.
My father in-law died at the young age of 50, a month after his birthday, succumbing to the lifelong injuries of war.
…
Respectfully laid to rest at Fort Logan National Cemetery, Army Vietnam Veteran, W.R.S (1953–2003) “Your mission is complete. Your watch is over. Rest in peace, Soldier. We have the watch.”
C.A.Murray 2024 — All Rights Reserved
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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