I woke up to a beeping sound, initially oblivious to my surroundings. Then, a strong, familiar stench filled my nose. I knew it was the hospital that had this amalgam of smells emanating from various sources, ranging from potent cleaning agents to the scent of drugs.

Faces poke through the haze, linger, fade away. They peer down, ask me questions. They all ask questions. Do I know who I am? Do I hurt anywhere?.

I know who I am and I hurt everywhere. I want to tell them this but talking hurts.

I faded out.

A man stood by my bedside, and I recognized him instantly. He was quite dark, tall, and immaculate with a thick beard. He wore a Jalab, his favorite type of clothing – the most comfortable in the world, as he often said. It was my Dad.

“How are you feeling, son?” he asked. I couldn’t reply; there was something wrong with my mouth.

I faded out again.

My stomach ached, and a woman with a stethoscope hanging around her neck, and a sun-shaped stud in her ear, her ponytail swinging, hunched over my arm. She attached a clear plastic tube to it. I was becoming more aware of my surroundings; it was very white. My Dad was gone this time, replaced by a fragile-looking woman resting her head on my bed. My mom looked so peaceful and innocent when she was asleep, but she appeared tired and unwell, worn down by worry.

I remembered the last time I had her by my bedside in a hospital, about seven years ago. I had been in a ghastly bike accident while running an errand for her. There was no surprise there; I was fond of urging bike men to move at insane speeds just to feel the thrill.

But that day was different, I told the bike man to speed up, but the old man had insisted on moving at a normal speed. Five minutes into the trip, another bike man, speeding recklessly with faulty brakes, crashed into us.

We were all rushed to the hospital. I had broken ribs, the least injured of the bunch, while my bike man died instantly, and the other man broke his back, likely never to walk again. I woke up in the middle of the night to see my mother’s head buried in the bed, just as she was doing now, trying to sleep through the night.

I faded out once more.