I remember the day just like yesterday. Waking up, glancing
at my clock, then shifting my attention to the sinking snowflakes; only to etch
in my memory that at 8:45 a.m. Sunday morning, January 27, 2008, we had recently
received several new inches of fresh clean snow. Energy wove through my body,
realizing that today would have been perfect for snowboarding with my oldest
brother, who was already there. Sitting up, I noted voices down the hall. My
family’s voices, mixed with other familiar voices, invited me to clamber out of
bed and join them. I quickly dressed myself and sauntered down the hall only to
find some making breakfast, while others curled up on the couches watching
animation. Receiving word that no help was needed in the preparation, I joined
the group in the living room, slumping into comfort, wrapping myself into a
blanket. Then, the atmosphere changed. Mom received a unfamiliar call on her
cell, so we respectfully paused the film to allow her to speak, “Debby speaking”
the familiar voice rung. Then, silence. Mom’s face bleached into a pale gray
color as she replied, “Yes, this is his Mother.” Frantically, my Father gently
demanded, “What happened? What is going on!?” Our friend glanced at him saying,
“Mark Maniscalco was in an accident?”. What! This can’t be! He has to be okay!
We were just riding rails together on Friday before he left. He has to be fine.
The thoughts frantically spun through my mind, pushing tears out my eyes… Mom’s
voice began to quiver, “Okay…We will be on our way down right away”… The pauses
that lasted only seconds seemed to last years. My heart was pounding in my
chest, moving toward my throat. I attempted to swallow it back down, but was
being unsuccessful. After what seemed like hours, Mom got off the phone.
Questions jetted her direction, “What is
happening, is Nick okay? Who was that?”… Calmly, she began to respond with a
quivering voice, “That was the doctor. Nick was in a serious accident, hit his
head, and they don’t think he is going to live. They can’t tell us much until they have proof
that we are his family. Plus he is nineteen, so legally they can’t tell us
everything without his permission. They told me that the roads are so dangerous
that we should not go down to see him. Several ambulances have even gone off the
road, but we have to go.” Dad rapidly responded, “What do they think we are,
stupid, of course we are going to go right now! Our son is on his deathbed, I’m
not going to sit here. Melina, go pack your bags, we don’t know when we are
going to come back home. I am calling Ben to see if we can barrow his vehicle.”
Dashing to my room, I crumpled in a sobbing heap in the corner, “God, please
don’t take him away. This can’t be. He is my best friend. He was just fine. I love him so much!
Everyone loves him. Please, please, I plead, help him to be okay.” Consciously
collecting myself, I grabbed the nearest bag, and began stuffing clothing into
it. Moments passed, and we were making our way down to Walla Walla. The amount
of time it took to arrive in Walla Walla doubled, because of the treacherous
roads. On the way, I listened as we spread the shocking news to close family
and friends. Tears trickled down my face on occasions when recalling the
minimal information we were given. Upon arriving to the hospital, several
friends uneasily greeted us, and lead us to the third floor. I took one step
out of the elevator, only to be overwhelmed when I scanned around to see just fewer
than one hundred of Nick’s friends intently watching us, searching our faces
for peace, with a hope that this was all a joke. Silently, they watched, as we
were lead by nurses down the longest, darkest hallway to the entrance of the
ICU. With permission, we creaked the door open, slid in, and moped down another
hallway. I watched the condition of each patient as we ambled by, none of which
appeared as if they were going to survive; later I learned that many of them
didn’t. As we rounded the corner we passed a room, I took special note of the
kid lying in the bed. The octopus tubes attached to countless different parts
of his body. He appeared to be young, like my brother’s age, but didn’t look
much like him. I was glad that it was not my brother, because he didn’t look to
hopeful. I prayed for his family, that God would comfort them and be with them.
Then, the nurse took a sharp right turn into that kid’s room. My body screamed,
my heart skipped a beat, and I lost my breath. As the nurse motioned me past
her into the room, she whispered, “Speak to him like he is okay, you never know
how much he really knows is happening.” Mustering up all the courage I could,
with my mouth quivering, I choked out, “Hey, Nick! This is Melina! I’m here for
you.” Understanding my skepticism, the nurse whispered to me that I could touch
his hand if I wanted to, so I did. One finger, gently connecting with his
repetitive seizing skin, holding back the tears and screams that I held locked
inside. It was too much, I had to take a break, so we returned down the darkest,
longest hallway to searching eyes, sobbing into the arms of them. The doctor told
us that the chance of him making it out alive was slim, but that if he did, it
would be a long road. God had a plan in mind. Here it is, five years later;
it’s been a long road, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. What God has
taught my family, and how He has brought us closer together is priceless. Nick
has been required to relearn most everything all over again, but he has used it
to glorify God, and draw other’s closer to God. Today, January 27, 2008 marks
the worst and the best day of my life.
