Almost at the same time my girlfriend was rushed into the emergency room again, I felt a sudden tightness in my chest, my breathing growing labored. The suffocating pressure would ease for a moment, only to return with a vengeance, as if an invisible force were moving inside me, pressing against my heart, making it impossible to breathe.
Suddenly, my phone rang. It was her mother, her voice trembling:
"She… she's been rushed into the ER again."
My hand holding the phone went ice-cold. My heartbeat raced uncontrollably, almost leaping out of my chest. Every second of waiting stretched endlessly, a torment, as if the world had been reduced to the flickering lights of the hospital.
An hour later, the most terrifying news arrived—the doctors announced that she hadn't made it.
I sat frozen, eyes blank, unable to accept the cruel reality.
Shortly after, a message came through—her mother wrote that her fingers had twitched slightly. Yet her heart and pulse remained still. Four doctors immediately began CPR, trying to maintain blood flow and oxygen to her brain.
My girlfriend had a congenital heart condition, and even if she were revived, her condition remained precarious. Her mother's voice choked with emotion over the phone: the situation was dire, and they were preparing for a heart transplant. The doctors added coldly that even the top medical teams in the United States had low chances of success.
On the other end, her mother whispered,
"Could this be… surviving a great calamity, meant for future blessings?"
But in my heart, an indescribable chill surged—I knew this was far more than a brush with death.
It was as if some unseen force was quietly intervening in our lives, silently shaping our fate.