I’m sorry for leaving you with the ambulances. Not once. But twice. The first time came with the loud panting in my ears and the thudding in my chest, feeling like I could reach into my mouth and pull out my heart at any moment. I was sprinting towards my house, which was a block away from my middle school. Our cousin called me saying “Evy got hit by a car.” Everything went silent, and I froze. I called our parents, but they wouldn’t answer. Before I knew it, I was running out the door. The air felt crisp, stabbing my nostrils, while my eyes looked around at the grayness of the sky enveloping me. The panting dimmed the sound from far away, that awful music one dreads to hear. It’s almost like a slowed-down carousel tune, creepy and engulfing. I ran through the gray towards the corner where we would play, and as I reached the finish line, all I could see was red. The red was flashing in between blue, these colors mixing my world into a swirly painting as my eyes fought for somewhere to settle and look. The ambulance was driving away from the scene as I approached the asphalt you had been lying on not even five minutes ago. You had already been taken away. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it on time. 

 

You were okay after that, although the guilt hadn’t washed away. You had a concussion, so I tried my best to make it up to you. It got to the point where that day in March was behind us, and everything would be fine forever. We’d still be able to grow up and be best friends forever. I would still be able to hear your high-pitched nine-year-old laugh. I would still be able to feel the warmth of your body when we hugged. Then May came. 

 

The second time I let you leave in an ambulance was after 4 months of brain cancer. You had just come back from the hospital and were lying in our parents’ bed at the old house. I asked if you were tired, you nodded, and I kissed you on the forehead. I’m sorry I told you to close your eyes and get some rest. About 30 minutes later, I came back into the room where our mother met her panicked eyes with mine. Try to get her to talk. I’m sorry that I couldn’t.

 

Your eyes were big and full of life, yet this time they were empty and forgetful.  Three, four, three, four… That’s all you said. I wonder what that meant. I’m sorry I kept poking you, bothering you. Maybe you were concentrating on remembering who you were and how to come back to us. I yelled at my parents. TAKE HER TO THE HOSPITAL. You couldn’t move. You fell asleep. Maybe all you remembered were my words telling you to rest. I didn’t mean it that way. 

 

Our father threw you over his shoulder, and you were already unconscious. Your body went limp as you kept throwing up. My parents yelled at me to call 911. Maybe I didn’t call fast enough. If only I were able to predict the future…

 

The ambulance came and drove through the same street it had passed through six months prior. This time, there wasn’t any urgency to leave. I stared from the opposite side as our mother held your unconscious body in her arms, kissing your face. All I thought was, Why aren’t they rushing to save you? They took you away, and that was the last time I had seen or talked to you. After a week in a coma, you decided to fully rest. The day before, I took the time to talk to you and tell you that it was okay for you to go. Why would I say that? It wasn’t true.

 

I’m sorry that I believed in the unrealistic faith in God that you would be okay, even after googling glioblastoma multiforme stage four and knowing that you were going to die. I’m sorry that I left you with the ambulances.