By Rebecca Welter

It was dark out, and I was tired. There were blurry images of fields of grass and sugarcane, mountains and valleys passed by as we jetted forward racing for a life, a very important life, my dad’s life.
My dad was reclined as far as he could in the car seat, groaning in agony, but trying to stay calm and composed. He’s a guy who wants everyone to believe nothing is wrong, but we all knew that was a lie. He could see the warnings and signs of terror written across all of our faces.
It was quiet; no sound was heard but the running engine of the car, and the tires grinding against the asphalt. I watched the speedometer climb as we exited off the road. As we reached our destination, my mother and I helped him into the emergency room moving as swiftly and safely as we could. We sat there looking around, noticing the distinguishing factor between my family and the kama.΄ặinas, or native Hawaiians; knowing that we weren’t locals and we were the only haoles, foreign Caucasian people. We waited watching people being called, name after name; my dad was sick. He needed help and they weren’t calling his name. My mother kept saying, “Help him, he needs help.” I think it was because of my mom’s pestering that the nurse finally came. We sat second after second, minute after minute, and hour after hour waiting for an answer.
Today this memory is still vivd and fresh in mind: not because my father was a white man instead of a Hawaiian local and he seemed to be forgotten; not that I had to sit and watch my father swim in pain while we were there lost and helpless; not because, when he was finally admitted, we saw him hours later on a bed with blood spots on the sheets from the previous patient and nobody would listen to the fact that he has a chronic disease. It was because this incident brought my family closer together spending hours in a small hospital room uncertain of what was happening to my father.
Earlier that night my mom spoke rapidly with a quiver in her voice. I went into the bathroom and my dad was unconscious crumpled on the floor like those dead bodies on CSI. It was after noticing the lump of stillness on the ground that my eyes wandered to the crimson color that filled the toilet.
During the week he was in the hospital, I learned to be grateful for everything and everyone around me. I learned that every minute counts.
It was this experience from three years ago that taught me that nothing ever goes according to plan; no one ever adds in the unexpected variables.
I now try to be a better person. I appreciate life, love, friendship, and family. We do not know our fate, but we know that at some point in our lives we will die.