Knockout

“Your son is in critical condition.”

         Jim Wilson got the call he thought he’d never get in a million years, as he pushed the pedal to his old 1997 Ford F-150 to the floor. Stony Brook University Hospital was a good fifty miles from where he lived, on the east end of Long Island, and he’d already been on the road for forty minutes. His heart pounded harder and faster with each passing minute, remembering the last time he was at that particular hospital, was the last time he’d seen his wife alive, and with an old beat up truck that frequently broke down, he wasn’t sure if he’d make it there at all this time. Still, he needed to get there, even if he’d have to walk the rest of the way, he couldn’t leave his only son alone, with no one by his side. Please hold on.

         When he got to 495–also known as the Long Island Expressway–he again pushed the pedal to the floor, he was a little more than halfway there now. But 495 was dangerous, and was more like a racetrack for lunatics, than an expressway. He knew he’d have to be careful not to cause an accident, and not to catch the attention of any cops that could be lurking in the shadows. He weaved his old truck between the fancy sports cars, motorcycles, and big mac trucks, changing lanes as fast as he could, to not be stuck behind slower drivers.

         Finally, he made it to exit 62 and got off. But Nicholls Road wasn't much safer than 495. It was dark, long and windy, a road he dreaded driving on, not just because of the bad memories, but because it was downright dangerous. When he reached the hospital, he felt his heart squeeze itself tighter–he wanted to know what was wrong, but at the same time he didn’t. He pulled his truck into a parking space, and quickly got out without locking the door, then headed up a steep sidewalk that led to the emergency room entrance. By the time he made it to the entrance, he was already out of breath.

         He walked inside, where two security guards were stationed behind a long desk, one with a large computer screen in front of him.

         “How can we help you tonight sir?” the young hispanic guard asked, who looked like she was in her twenties.

         Still trying to catch his breath, and hunched over with his hands on his knees, Jim said, “My son. I need to see my son.”

         “Is your son a patient?” the male guard, an older man who looked to be in his fifties asked, as he prepared to type into the computer.

         “Yes.”

         “What’s your son’s name and date of birth?”

         “Justin Wilson. July 2nd 2006.”

         “One moment.” The hispanic guard said as she picked up a landline and made a phone call.

         When she was done she turned to Jim and said, “A doctor will be down shortly to speak with you. Please have a seat in the visitor’s area.”

         But that was the last thing Jim wanted to hear, he didn’t want to be stuck inside of his mind any longer, wondering what was wrong with his son. He caught his breath and stood up straight.

         “Mam. I got a phone call saying my son was in critical condition, I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

         “I understand sir, but we have a protocol we have to follow. Please have a seat.”

         But before Jim could sit down, a young Indian man, who clearly looked like a doctor, came through one of the corridors and approached him.

         “Mr. Wilson?” he asked.

         Jim braced himself, unsure of what was coming next.

         “Yes?”

         “I’m sorry,” the doctor hesitated, then said, “we did everything we could.”