Midnight Dreams

I really don't like saying this, but read it, think what you will. It might be a little confusing at some points. Ask questions if it is.

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I remember it clear as day, getting off of the plane and suddenly being blasted by the familiar smells, seeing the same roads, hearing the thousands of people living their lives, day to day. I remember walking out of the airport, feeling a small pang of despair inside of me, so small, yet so deadly. I remember reaching the hospital, already sweating from the intense heat. I remember thinking one thing, in the small yet so large place known only as India.

Why did this happen to us?

As I walk up to the room, I remember a flash of memory: My mom calling home, right when I got off of the school bus, concluding another happy day at school. Her panicking voice telling me my father was in the hospital, my complete nonchalant attitude towards her, my innocent mind clearly blocking the reality of the situation. It was only when I reached the room, unworried and still thinking about school that I realized the severity of the situation. When I saw my father, laying on the white hospital bed, I began a three year journey that I will never forget.

What had been wrong with my father had started with his liver. He started drinking at an early age and continued drinking, a lot, through his years. It was only after a combined effort from my whole family that stopped him, and that may have been what stopped him from dying when he first went to the hospital. He had only just stopped before that, too. His liver failed still, and he was diagnosed with liver sclerosis. I thought it would be easy to fix this, because again, hospitals were supposed to make people healthy, right? I have never been more wrong in my life.

My father went through a period of getting out of the hospital, slowly recovering, and once again going back. Through this all, I never really knew why he kept going back. A messed up liver is impossible to fix. The only option my father had was transplant. Unfortunately, there was a waiting list. A literal list, of people waiting for transplant. The estimated time my father would need to wait was at least a year. Problem was he didn’t have that much time. But solutions come in the most coincidental ways, and it was the same for our predicament.

My aunt owns a small store close to Pewaukee. One of her customers knew a guy who had recently gotten a liver transplant in India, after hearing about the waitlist back in the USA. My mother instantly was told about it, and soon enough, a trip was arranged to India. I was to stay behind, as school was still ending. I ended up leaving anyways, as seventh grade is relatively unimportant.

I went to India, and pretty much lived there for two months, during which I lost almost all contact with the outside world. That didn’t matter though, and for two months my day consisted of waking up, going to the hospital two hours away, and sitting with my dad for the day, and then going home. Every second became a minute, every minute an hour, every hour a day, every day an eternity. I lost myself in the sea of confusion and despair that is called Pain.

My dad got his transplant on June 22nd, 2008. He recovered fairly well, and by the time school started up again I was home. But when I came back to Asa, the world was just.. Different. Small things like reputation simply didn’t matter anymore; it was both scary and relieving. I was free of the conventional worries of the average student, and it some ways it was good, others bad. But in some ways I was convinced I never wanted to go back to India, ever again. 8th grade was fairly nice, up until my dad ended up in the hospital again. This time, his liver was okay. It was something else entirely that was wrong with him. There is a small tube that leads up to the liver, and if that tube is non existent the toxins that flow into the liver cannot get out. That tube was blocked, and as such, problems once again arose.

I missed one day of school for my dad’s endoscopy. This was supposed to fix the problem, but ultimately, the only solution was to go to India, once again. However, the urgency wasn’t as large as before, and my dad waited until late September to go. My mother went with him. This time, I was almost completely sure I didn’t want to go and vehemently told my parents I didn’t have the time nor the desire. This surgery was very low risk, something like a tooth pulling could have been more dangerous. But I wouldn’t be mentioning this unless I ended up going, would I?

I remember the exact time the clock had been at. It was exactly 11:10, during English class. We were in the middle of finishing The Once and Future King. The loudspeaker suddenly rang out, and I was asked to go down to the office immediately. The office was just a quick turn to the left, and when I got to the desk, I was asked to come inside. I opened the door, a small uneasiness building up in the very bottom of my stomach. The secretary started to talk about a “trip”. I almost immediately stopped her, and asked her about it. She gave me a look of complete surprise, and asked

“Do you mean to say you don’t know about this?”

I answered, a little shakily, yes.

And so, for the second time, I was told I was going halfway across the world.

I remember it clear as day, getting off of the plane and suddenly being blasted by the familiar smells, seeing the same roads, hearing the thousands of people living their lives, day to day. I remember walking out of the airport, feeling a small pang of despair inside of me, so small, yet so deadly. I remember reaching the hospital, already sweating from the intense heat. I remember thinking one thing, in the small yet so large place known only as India.

Why did this happen to us?


Those two weeks were again an eternity, and I felt like it would never end. It felt like two years rather than two weeks. In the end, I again remembered how unserious things back home were. My dad again had a surgery, and again was safe, and again recovered quickly. I flew home alone, and that in itself was a little unnerving. My parents came shortly after. Some had noticed, others had not. I think someone had thought I died, too. But that's not what I remember most. I remember flying halfway across the world for my family, twice. It brought about a new understanding of my close family to me. It’s only at somebody’s worst that you see who they really are. When my father was lying on that bed for the second time, so close to death yet so calm, collected, I gained a newfound respect for him. It wasn’t us that brought him through India, it was him that brought us through India. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this all, and I hope I don’t have to learn anymore, it’s that even in the worst times, all one can and should need to do is keep on hoping for a better time, because it will come. No matter what, it will be okay in the end. If it isn’t okay it isn’t the end.