Hospitals Again
1435 Words
Jessica hated hospitals.
Not in the ordinary way most people do.
Not because they were boring.
Not because of needles or waiting rooms.
She hated hospitals because too many pieces of her life had been left inside them.
Overdoses.
Withdrawal.
Emergency surgeries.
Comas.
Breathing tubes.
Close calls.
Machines screaming in dark rooms.
The smell alone could make her chest tighten.
That sterile hospital smell — disinfectant mixed with plastic, medication, and fear — instantly pulled memories from places in her mind she sometimes tried hard to bury.
And somehow, after the accident, hospitals became part of her life all over again.
Not once.
Not twice.
Again and again.
At first Jessica thought surviving the crash would be the end of it.
She thought once rehabilitation finished, life would finally calm down.
But her body had been through catastrophic trauma.
And catastrophic trauma leaves damage behind long after scars heal on the surface.
Complications appeared constantly.
Infections.
Breathing problems.
Pain flare-ups.
Medical scares.
Unexpected symptoms.
Some days she felt okay.
Then suddenly she didn’t.
Her body became unpredictable in ways that terrified her.
And every time something went wrong badly enough, it meant another hospital visit.
Another admission.
Another IV.
Another night staring at white ceiling tiles listening to machines beep around her.
The first hospital stay after coming home from rehabilitation emotionally destroyed her more than she admitted aloud.
Because returning there made everything real again.
The crash wasn’t over.
It wasn’t “behind her.”
Her body still carried consequences every single day.
Jessica remembered sitting in the emergency room feeling exhausted and angry watching nurses move around calmly while panic built quietly inside her chest.
She knew hospitals too well now.
Too well.
She knew what critical sounded like.
She knew the tone doctors used when they were worried but trying not to scare families yet.
She knew how fast situations changed.
That knowledge haunted her.
Because once you almost die enough times, your brain never fully forgets it.
Some hospital stays lasted days.
Some lasted weeks.
And each time she left home, guilt followed her.
Guilt about Elijah.
That always hurt most.
Every time paramedics arrived or her parents rushed her to emergency, Jessica thought about him immediately.
Would he be scared?
Would he worry she wasn’t coming back?
Would this become another traumatic memory he carried forever?
She hated that thought more than pain itself sometimes.
Because Elijah had already watched too much suffering for a child.
He saw wheelchairs.
Medical equipment.
Exhaustion.
Hospital bags packed quickly.
Whispers between adults.
Fear hidden poorly behind forced smiles.
And even though Jessica tried protecting him emotionally, children always sense more than adults realize.
One hospital stay after a severe infection stayed burned into her memory especially deeply.
She remembered struggling to breathe properly while nurses attached monitors quickly around her body.
Everything happened fast.
Questions.
Bloodwork.
Oxygen.
Doctors moving with increasing urgency.
Jessica could see it in their faces before anyone said anything directly.
Something was wrong.
Again.
She remembered laying there staring upward thinking:
“No. Not again.”
Not because she feared pain anymore.
Pain had become familiar.
She feared leaving Elijah behind.
That fear outweighed everything now.
Her parents suffered through those hospital stays too.
Jessica noticed it more after becoming sober and emotionally mature enough to truly see them.
Her mother barely slept during emergencies.
Her father tried staying strong but his eyes always gave him away eventually.
Years earlier, addiction made them fear losing their daughter constantly.
Now medical crises replaced overdoses.
Different battlefield.
Same fear.
And sometimes that realization crushed Jessica emotionally.
Because she hated how much suffering her choices and circumstances had caused the people who loved her most.
Still, they never stopped showing up.
Not once.
No matter how exhausted they became.
Hospitals also carried loneliness unlike any other place.
Even surrounded by people, hospitals felt lonely.
Especially at night.
Daytime kept distractions moving.
Doctors entered rooms.
Nurses checked vitals.
Machines beeped constantly.
Phones rang.
But nighttime slowed everything down.
The hallways quieted.
Lights dimmed.
And Jessica’s thoughts became louder.
Those were the hardest hours.
Laying awake unable to sleep while monitors glowed softly nearby.
Listening to distant footsteps outside the room.
Watching IV fluids drip slowly.
Thinking about life.
Death.
Regret.
Survival.
Some nights she cried quietly staring into darkness wondering how many more times her body could survive this cycle.
Because being chronically ill or medically fragile exhausts people in ways outsiders rarely understand.
It’s not only physical exhaustion.
It’s emotional exhaustion too.
Always wondering when the next emergency might happen.
Always waiting for the next problem.
Always carrying fear in the background quietly.
The trauma from the original crash made every hospital visit harder too.
Sometimes certain sounds triggered panic immediately.
Machines alarming.
Rapid footsteps.
The sound of oxygen masks.
Even specific phrases doctors used brought her right back mentally to the coma and surgeries after the accident.
Her body remembered.
Trauma teaches the nervous system to stay alert constantly.
Jessica lived with that alertness every day.
Even when pretending she was okay.
One thing she noticed over time was how differently she viewed life during hospital stays compared to before the accident.
Years ago, while addicted, she treated life recklessly.
Like it was disposable.
Now every hospital admission reminded her how badly she wanted to stay alive.
That shocked her sometimes.
Especially during frightening moments when doctors looked concerned.
Jessica realized she truly wasn’t ready to die anymore.
Not even close.
She wanted more mornings with Elijah.
More years with Kitty curled beside her.
More conversations with her parents.
More time.
Even painful time.
Because survival had changed her relationship with life completely.
Her wheelchair complicated hospital stays too.
Simple things became difficult.
Transfers.
Accessibility.
Dependence on staff.
Loss of privacy.
Loss of independence.
Jessica hated needing assistance repeatedly.
Especially from strangers.
Some nurses were incredible.
Gentle.
Respectful.
Patient.
Others unintentionally made her feel invisible, like her disability spoke louder than her actual personality.
Jessica learned quickly how exhausting it was having to constantly prove she was mentally strong even while physically struggling.
People often confused disability with weakness.
She despised that.
Because surviving everything she survived required terrifying amounts of strength.
Still, hospitals taught her unexpected things too.
Perspective, mostly.
Jessica met people fighting battles far worse than her own.
Cancer patients.
Children in pain.
Families saying goodbye to loved ones.
Elderly people completely alone.
Those experiences softened her in certain ways.
Pain connected people strangely.
Sometimes brief conversations with another patient mattered more than entire years of shallow friendships outside hospital walls.
Suffering stripped people down to honesty.
And Jessica respected honesty deeply now.
One nurse once asked her quietly during a particularly difficult admission:
“How do you keep fighting like this?”
Jessica remembered staring at the ceiling for a moment before answering honestly.
“Elijah.”
That was the truth.
Always Elijah.
Her son became the anchor pulling her back toward life every single time her body tried collapsing again.
Not perfectly.
Not magically.
But powerfully enough.
She refused to become another tragic story people whispered about after funerals.
Refused.
She had already escaped addiction.
Already survived death multiple times.
Already survived the crash.
She was not giving up now.
Hospital discharges always felt emotional too.
Packing belongings slowly.
Hearing doctors finally say she could go home.
Rolling out through hospital doors back into fresh air.
Those moments never felt ordinary to Jessica.
They felt earned.
Every discharge meant survival one more time.
Another battle won.
Another close call escaped.
And every single time she came home, the routine repeated beautifully.
Elijah hugging her carefully.
Her parents visibly relaxing.
And Kitty immediately climbing onto her lap like she needed to personally confirm Jessica was alive and back where she belonged.
Those moments healed something inside her every time.
Because hospitals reminded Jessica how fragile life was.
But home reminded her why she kept fighting for it.
People sometimes told Jessica she was strong.
She never fully knew how to respond to that.
Because strength sounded powerful.
Confident.
Certain.
And most days she didn’t feel powerful.
Most days she felt tired.
Scared.
Exhausted.
But maybe real strength looks different than people imagine.
Maybe real strength is simply refusing to quit despite fear.
Maybe it’s surviving another hospital stay when you’re mentally drained already.
Maybe it’s continuing forward after years of pain instead of surrendering to it.
If that was true…
Then yes.
Jessica supposed she was strong after all.
Not because life had been easy.
But because it hadn’t been — and she was still here anyway...
- Writer
