I had a panic attack. A fire truck drove down my street. I babbled incoherently at the three cars that refused to move over for Constance’s ambulance. I was in the passenger seat as we went between the hospitals, so I could see their faces and hear the drivers curse their selfishness.
The trip from our local hospital to the pediatric hospital for her emergency brain surgery took longer in the ambulance than if I had driven her in my car. In fairness, I have received at least one warning from every village in the north shore and a very sarcastic “your majesty” from Northbrook’s finest. He was directed to turn into a corporate campus at the time, but I’m sure in his mind he was telling me where he really wanted me to go.
Rationally, I know that a malignant brain tumor is fatal regardless of whether you live across the street from a children’s hospital. Still, I keep making irrational wishes. They are equal to one big wish: to have Constance with me now.