MidReal Story
Echoes of a Cough
Scenario: My father died and I began to cough like him.
Create my version of this story
Thomas Carter
deceased father, Emily's father, tall with greying hair, wise and caring
Sarah Jennings
family friend and doctor, friend of the family, curly red hair, compassionate and knowledgeable
Emily Carter
grieving daughter, relationship with her father, short black hair, introspective and resilient
I coughed like my father.
It was the first thing I noticed when I woke up in the hospital.
The second thing I noticed was that he wasn’t there.
He’d been there when I went to sleep, sitting in the chair next to my bed, holding my hand and telling me that everything would be okay.
But now it was morning, and he was gone.
My mother was there instead, sitting in the chair with her head down and her hands folded together in her lap.
She looked up when she heard me coughing and smiled at me, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
"Good morning," she said.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," I croaked out, my throat raw from coughing all night long.
I coughed like my father.
It was the first thing I noticed when I woke up in the hospital.
The second thing I noticed was that he wasn’t there.
He’d been there when I went to sleep, sitting in the chair next to my bed, holding my hand and telling me that everything would be okay.
But now it was morning, and he was gone.
My mother was there instead, sitting in the chair with her head down and her hands folded together in her lap.
She looked up when she heard me coughing and smiled at me, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
"Good morning," she said.
"How are you feeling?"
Like shit," I croaked out, my throat raw from coughing all night long.
I reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a sip before handing it back to my mother.
The sound of my cough echoed through the room, filling it with an eerie sense of déjà vu.
It was exactly how my father had sounded before he’d died, like he couldn’t catch his breath no matter how hard he tried.
I could still see him lying in the hospital bed, his face pale and drawn, his eyes closed as he gasped for air.
I could still hear the sound of his rattling breaths as he struggled to take in enough oxygen to keep himself alive.
And then, suddenly, there was nothing but silence, as if even the world itself had stopped to mourn his passing.
But as much as I wanted to forget everything that had happened, as much as I wanted to pretend that it had all been a bad dream, I knew that it was real.
My father was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
He was dead, and there was no way to change that fact.
His body might be gone, but his spirit lived on in the room with us, a presence so strong that I could almost see him standing there beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder as he looked down at me with a smile on his face.
My mother must have noticed me staring at the empty space next to me because she reached out and turned on the light, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow.
"Are you okay?
" she asked softly.
I nodded, but the tears were already falling down my cheeks.
My father had been there for me when I’d gone through this once before, when I’d been diagnosed with cancer at the age of twenty-five, when I’d had surgery to remove a tumor from my lung.
He’d held me in his arms, stroking my hair and whispering words of love and comfort in my ear until I fell asleep in his arms.
And then he’d been beside me every step of the way after that, helping me through the radiation treatments and chemotherapy sessions that followed.
It was the first thing I noticed when I woke up in the hospital.
The second thing I noticed was that he wasn’t there.
He’d been there when I went to sleep, sitting in the chair next to my bed, holding my hand and telling me that everything would be okay.
But now it was morning, and he was gone.
My mother was there instead, sitting in the chair with her head down and her hands folded together in her lap.
She looked up when she heard me coughing and smiled at me, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
"Good morning," she said.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," I croaked out, my throat raw from coughing all night long.
I reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a sip before handing it back to my mother.
The sound of my cough echoed through the room, filling it with an eerie sense of déjà vu.
It was exactly how my father had sounded before he’d died, like he couldn’t catch his breath no matter how hard he tried.
I could still see him lying in the hospital bed, his face pale and drawn, his eyes closed as he gasped for air.
I could still hear the sound of his rattling breaths as he struggled to take in enough oxygen to keep himself alive.
And then, suddenly, there was nothing but silence, as if even the world itself had stopped to mourn his passing.
But as much as I wanted to forget everything that had happened, as much as I wanted to pretend that it had all been a bad dream, I knew that it was real.My father was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
He was dead, and there was no way to change that fact.
His body might be gone, but his spirit lived on in the room with us, a presence so strong that I could almost see him standing there beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder as he looked down at me with a smile on his face.
My mother must have noticed me staring at the empty space next to me because she reached out and turned on the light, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow.
"Are you okay?
" she asked softly.
I nodded, but the tears were already falling down my cheeks.
My father had been there for me when I’d gone through this once before, when I’d been diagnosed with cancer at the age of twenty-five, when I’d had surgery to remove a tumor from my lung.
He’d held me in his arms, stroking my hair and whispering words of love and comfort in my ear until I fell asleep in his arms.
And then he’d been beside me every step of the way after that, helping me through the radiation treatments and chemotherapy sessions that followed.
I coughed like my father.
It was the first thing I noticed when I woke up in the hospital.
The second thing I noticed was that he wasn’t there.
He’d been there when I went to sleep, sitting in the chair next to my bed, holding my hand and telling me that everything would be okay.
I tried to speak, but my voice was barely a whisper, the sound of it lost somewhere between my chest and throat.
I coughed again, and the pain in my chest made me wince.
My mother reached out and touched my shoulder, her fingers cool against my skin as she tried to reassure me that everything would be okay.
"I love you," she said softly before standing up and heading towards the door.
I watched her go, feeling completely alone for the first time since all of this had started.
A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Dr. Sarah Jennings walked into the room.
She was a close family friend, as well as our primary physician, so it wasn’t unusual for her to be here.
She was tall with curly red hair that stood out against my short black hair, which was still wet from the shower that I’d taken earlier that day before coming to the hospital.
"Hello, Emily," she said as she walked over to the bed and started checking my vitals.
"How are you feeling?"
I coughed again before answering, "Not good."
"How long have you had this cough?"
She asked, her tone gentle and concerned as she continued to check my vitals.
"A few weeks now, I think," I said.
She nodded and made a note on her clipboard before asking if there was anything else that I’d been experiencing.
"I have a sore throat," I said, my voice barely a whisper as I spoke through the pain that had been building up in my chest and throat all day long.
Dr. Jennings listened to what I had to say and then nodded, making another note on her clipboard as she did so.
"Well, the x-rays show that you don’t have pneumonia," she said, looking up at me from her clipboard as she spoke.
I let out a sigh of relief and then coughed again, my hand coming up to my mouth as I did so.
"Thank God," I said between coughs.
Dr. Jennings smiled at me and then nodded again before continuing.
"It could be something as simple as an environmental factor or an allergy," she said as she finished writing on her clipboard.
"Or it could be something more serious."
She looked at me for a moment before continuing, "Given your family history, we need to be prepared for all the possibilities." "What do you mean?"
I asked, not sure if I wanted to know what she was going to say next.
My father had died of lung cancer a few years ago, and since then I’d been terrified that I would be next.
Dr. Jennings sighed and then sat down on the edge of the bed next to me, her expression serious as she spoke.
"I think that we should run some tests to see if we can figure out what’s going on," she said.