There we were, huddled together in the dark winter night. Dr. Henson, the local physician, had come to our house to give Mama an injection for her splitting headache. He paused in the doorway, surveying the desperate scene before him. As he left, he told me to call the little hospital if we needed anything.
A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a pale glow over the five of us gathered in a semi-circle around Mama, lying motionless on the bed. I was the oldest, just ten, while the youngest was barely five. Between us were the twins and my brother. We sat in silence, watching her shallow breaths, each of us hoping she would wake up.
Suddenly, Mama began to gurgle. We all jumped up, panic rising, and cried out, "Mama! Mama! Wake up!" Our small hands gripped her clothes and patted her face, desperate for a response. But there was only more gurgling, and still, she did not stir.
We had just moved from Seattle, after my father died, to a small town in Mississippi. In Seattle, we didn’t have a telephone, but now we did—though I had never used it. It was a heavy black rotary contraption with a small directory beside it. Somehow, I found the number for the little hospital and called, asking for Dr. Henson. He instructed me to gather all the children and try to roll Mama onto her side. Putting down the phone, I stumbled back to the bedroom, and we tried and tried to roll Mama onto her side. No luck. We couldn’t budge her; she was dead weight. Rushing back to the phone, I told Dr. Henson we couldn’t move her. He sent the ambulance immediately.
Fortunately, the ambulance arrived quickly, and the attendants placed Mama on the stretcher as five wide-eyed, fearful children watched. They left the house, and we were alone—just five children with tear-stained faces.
Somehow, we got up the next morning and went to school. Afterward, we rode the bus to our Aunt Janis’s house out in the country.
A day or so later, I saw my mother in the hospital. Dr. Henson called me outside her room and, in a very solemn voice, said, "Susan, you saved your mother’s life."
My father had only been dead for about six months, and only years later did I fully understand how close we had come to becoming orphans.
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