It commences with thunder. Not merely the kind that fractures the heavens, but the sort that settles deep within the chest — low, rolling, remembered. Years have passed since the hurricane, yet each flash of lightning still jolts my body into a defensive stance. I used to be unafraid of storms. Now, my body recalls before my mind does.
That evening, I was post-call. Worn out, intending to weather the storm like most lifelong Floridians do — with boarded windows and borrowed patience. But then the call arrived: Someone dear to me was speaking incoherently. One side of the face drooped. Eyes lost their focus. Gait faltered. I didn’t need to guess. I’d witnessed this too often in trauma bays and ICU corridors. Most likely a stroke. And we were caught in the eye of a Category 3 hurricane.
911 picked up. “We’re not deploying responders right now,” they informed. “It’s too perilous. If she stops breathing, call back for CPR guidance.” I stood there, phone still in hand, storm hammering on the roof, and recognized: No assistance would arrive. There was only one alternative. I snatched keys. We loaded her into the nearest vehicle — a brand-new electric car that wasn’t mine to use, but it turned into our lifeboat. One tank of charge. No electricity. No open routes. No margin for error.
The journey was surreal. Street signs torn from their foundations. Branches resembling spears across the thoroughfares. The wind screamed so loudly it drowned out my thoughts. Floodwater surged in gutters. I gripped the wheel tighter than I ever had, praying — not for safety, but for time. Upon reaching the emergency department, they looked at us as if we had emerged from another realm — drenched to the skin, shoes ruined, trembling, but alive. Imaging was performed. There was no definitive clot. Radiology was cautious. Neurology was uncertain. Yet I recognized the clinical picture: The gaze deviation, the slurred speech, the sudden hemiplegia — all indicative of a textbook embolic shower. I persisted. Advocated. Begged. She was still within the window. Treatment was feasible. And it was administered.
However, as I lingered there, observing machines beep and garments being cut away, I couldn’t cease pondering: What if I weren’t a doctor? What if I had stayed home as advised? What if I had waited for certainty? What if I had placed blind trust in the system?
What ensued were days of turmoil. The storm left the city in ruins. No power. No food. No potable water. Hospitals resembled shells, staffed by the youngest, the childless, those without the privilege to flee. Senior physicians had disappeared. Administrators were silent. Yet the work — the relentless tide of suffering — went on. After shifts, I would drive — sometimes for over an hour — to check on the person I had rescued from the brink. There was no fuel. No operational gas stations. Just sheer determination. We dined in silence, in darkness. I kept watch while she slept, fearful of what may return in the night.
Eventually, the entire narrative unfolded: Severe atherosclerosis, cardiomyopathy, heart failure. Additional hospitalizations. Cardiac arrest. I watched as someone I cherished battled harder than I believed possible for a human to endure. I witnessed a body, betrayed by its own structure, still refuse to surrender. It wasn’t science. It wasn’t chance. It was something sacred.
Yet perhaps what shattered me the most wasn’t the storm, or the stroke, or the silence of authority — it was the absence. Some family didn’t appear. Others sidestepped updates. A few individuals I had once relied upon chose leisure over presence. I heard one remark, “She had a good life,” as if preparing for a funeral that hadn’t yet arrived. I recall standing in that void — between life and death, between indifference and responsibility — and contemplating: This is where the world unveils itself. Some people never showed up. And others — strangers, nurses, neighbors — appeared without invitation.
– A nurse checked on her after hours.
– A friend delivered bottled water when there was none.
– A colleague silently covered a shift.
They didn’t have to. But they did. And that quiet loyalty, that unseen grace — I will always remember.
Since then, I perceive storms differently. They aren’t merely weather phenomena. They are spiritual sieves. They strip away pretense. They reveal your true self when there’s nothing left but instinct, duty, and time. I no longer presume that closeness equates to support. I no longer await apologies from those who vanish. I no longer pursue people who withhold their presence. That night, and everything that followed, dissolved the illusions.
What remained? Gratitude. Clarity. Conviction. I’m not the same person. I walk