Air comes crashing in through the crack of an opened car window; the sound is magnified as we speed down the expressway. I'm reminded that everything has a sound even if you cannot hear it in the stillness, the calm -- even if you can only hear it when accelerating or racing toward the chaos. I'm tempted to close the window because the sound is hard to hear, but the breeze is cooling. So it's necessary along with the noise.
My sister, grasping the steering wheel, switches from conversation to singing along with a mix CD, songs that take me back to the summer before my wedding. Songs that have no business being associated with a car ride to the hospital ... songs I don't want tainted, reminding me of yet another serious health catastrophe that's planted our dad in a single hospital bed. The music comforts my sister. Normally, it would lend me a shoulder, too. Except, nothing can lift the heavy feeling of spending another afternoon next to my dad's bedside, tubes protruding, monitors beeping, antibiotics flowing ... we're rushing this morning because more complications have surfaced.
It's contrary to my normal response. I don't normally press the gas pedal, full speed rush face first into situations about which I understand little. Typically, I tiptoe in offering support, comfort, company rather than barreling over loved ones, doctors, nurses all while demanding answers, pushing for action, advocating for being proactive rather than reactive. I don't like questioning, and thus putting weight on already fragile relationships, situations. But what's right is right. What's necessary is necessary. So I'm going to keep pushing because it's just not right that medical consults don't come when needed; it's not right that my dad isn't being given the attention he deserves and that doctors are not responding to our calls for help. And I'm going to make myself be OK with this discomfort, with this pushing of myself through tight spaces, making myself louder than what feels comfortable, sounds right.
I'd much rather be like air when it's quiet, silent in the stillness simply existing in open space. But here I am crashing through the open windows because if I don't I know that I cannot live with my choice to be still. Sometimes life demands movement. And sometimes movement produces noise. And sometimes noise is quite all right and even necessary. Sometimes closing the window isn't an option.