The kitchen sink drips a slow beat, in sync with the seconds that felt like hours. Yellowing wallpaper and industrial lighting highlight my mom's purple skin. My mother wasn’t breathing, but even if she was, you wouldn’t be able to hear it over our cries and screams.

As the sun set, my siblings and I were forced to “enjoy” family time in the form of Apples to Apples. Bickering over the simple rules led to fights that my parents had to resolve. By the time the sun went down, the house was full of tension and mixed emotions. The plan was to head to bed, but nobody got any sleep that night.

As us three kids were heading upstairs to our rooms, we were stopped by the sound of my mom's short, quick breaths. We were used to this sound coming from her because of her ongoing battle with asthma. Even though her and I weren’t on the best of terms right then, I was still worried. Usually when this happened, she would spend a night or two in the hospital. She made her way to the kitchen where her nebulizer was kept, which is a machine that turns liquid medication into a mist that can be breathed directly into one’s lungs.

Usually, it worked.

As I sat and watched my mother struggle to take in a breath, I realized that this time wasn’t like the others. Before anyone knew it, she was on the tiled floor. My step dad, Kenny, finally made the decision to call 911 after the Epipen did nothing to help. My mother hated going to the hospital. She says that they stick a tube down your throat to make you breath when you can’t and it’s immensely uncomfortable.

My mind begins to wander as I observe my mom’s misery.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

I see in my head a tube being forced down the dry throat of my mother. She’s freaking out, clawing at everyone that gets close to her. I hear her crying, knowing she needs the tube to breath, but hating the feeling of it.

The voice of reason finally gets to her and she succumbs to the pain. The tube sends the oxygen she needs into her lungs. Just like in movies, my mom whips up, sucking in a deep breath. Tasting the sweet, contaminated air.

Drip, drip.

Reality sets in. The ambulance isn’t here, and my mom is still dying on the kitchen floor.

Huddled in a group, my siblings and I drew strength from each other. It’s unbearable to see someone you love so much in such immense pain. Things started to move in slow motion as we were forced upstairs. Kenny didn’t want us to see her like this. After what seemed like forever, I finally heard the sirens, the same high pitch as my brothers cries. I wanted to see my mom again before she was taken to the hospital for what we initially thought was an overnight stay. After being through this so many times, I was used to staying calm and collected for the little kids. This got thrown out the window when I walked into the kitchen.

My heart stopped when I saw that my mother's once peaches-and-cream colored skin was now purple.
People were rushing in and out of the house, bending over my mom with expressions of confusion, like she was a puzzle that they couldn’t solve. I couldn’t move. Fear and angst held my feet to the floor like they were buried in fresh concrete on a hot summer day. It felt like hours that I was standing in the doorway to that kitchen, watching the life slowly escape her. At that point, I knew there was nothing anyone could do for her. Even though the paramedics were talking in their own language, there’s no way to say, “We can’t find a pulse,” that a teenager wouldn’t understand.

The next thing I remember is getting in a car with my siblings and being taken to their dad’s house. Kenny promised that he’d call us as soon as he knew anything. It was agonizing waiting for a phone call that we knew would either change our lives, or give us a better appreciation for our mom. Around ten at night, my stepmom’s phone rang, mocking our pain with the upbeat rhythm. With eager eyes, we watched her face fall and a single tear leak out of her eye.

I can’t imagine how hard it is to tell three kids that their mother just passed away.

That night, January 18th of 2016, was the moment my whole life got picked up and stomped on only to be returned to me damaged and unfamiliar. I still feel as if I am a stranger in my own life. A stranger in my own skin.

It takes a lot to be strong, but I know I can do it. I am my mother's daughter, after all.

I will make my mom proud.