I've always hated being asthmatic. The faintest of smells can close my throat in the blink of an eye.

Typically the odors which cause this reaction are from candles or air fresheners, but today, the food in the hospital restaurant is to blame. I wrinkle my nose and rub my head and irritation.

"Where is your inhaler?" my mother asks. I groan internally, easily recognizing the tone she's using. It's the tone that inevitably leads to a lecture I have no desire to listen to.

I put my elbow on the table to better support my head, ignoring my mother's glare. She hates elbows on tables.

Sighing, I take a sip of the water in front of me and eye the tortilla chips.

"Not here." I mutter sarcastically, looking over the menu. Distraction. I need distraction. I also need to breathe.

My mother grunts and reaches into her purse. I inadvertently notice it's the purse she uses for "therapeutic purposes." Lord knows what that means.

She pulls out an inhaler, and I laugh. My mother -- always prepared.

I breathe it in as I continue to peruse the menu.

It's my mother's turn to laugh. "I don't know why you bother looking when you always get the cheese enchiladas at every Mexican restaurant."

I grin and shrug. "I like to look at my options." I placed the menu at the edge of the table, and the waiter stops by again to take our order. We wait until he's gone, and are quiet for a few minutes. We know what has to be said. My stomach twists and turns just thinking about it.

She clears her throat, and all attempts at lightheartedness are gone. "The doctors are putting him through surgery again, but-" she stops abruptly, probably so she won't lose control of her voice.

I finish the sentence for her. "But it's the last time." She nods, taking a deep breath.

I close my eyes, willing the burning in my nose to recede. I don't need to cry. Not here. He'd want me to be strong.

Yet how could I possibly be as strong as he is? My father, the war veteran, who'd retired, but went back overseas in a time of need; who came back with minimal (physical) scars to show for the combat he'd endured, only to become the victim of a hit-and-run back at home.

The internal damage has yet to be found and the doctors fear the worst. They won't say it out loud, but we can see it in their eyes.

The crunch of a tortilla chip draws me out of my reverie. I jump a little as I do when exhausted and hear an abrupt noise. The bustling hospital did not help my anxiety, nor I suspect my mother.

"We need to start preparing," she finally says, and I agree. We've had multiple friends, family and co-workers stop by to visit, and offer words of comfort. All say the same thing: It's going to be alright, just pray.

All of their eyes say the same thing: he's as good as dead.

This can't be true.

Not of the man who survived Afghanistan twice. Not of the man who went to my every ballet recital while he was home on leave, listen to me rant about school, taught me how to drive, came home for my graduation, and is yet to give me away at my own wedding.

Not this man.

My mother grabbed my hand and we sit there in silence until the waiter returns with our meal. Cheese enchiladas. They remind me of happier times in my childhood.

My father was home on leave and nobody wanted to cook, so we went out for dinner. We knew the restaurant owner, so our meal was on the house. We laughed as my dad told us about a basketball game he partook in and how his team beat a bunch of skinny teenagers.

I remember hanging on his every word.

The smell of the food in that restaurant was simply divine. It smelled of happiness and reunion. Now, it smells of something depressing and parting. I wipe a stray tear from my eye.

"I guess praying won't hurt anything, will it?" I ask, but she stays quiet.

This, I understand. Praying means allowing hope. Allowing hope means a high chance of disappointment. If there's anything we despise, it's a lie.

Right now, it's safer to be realistic.

My mom's purse starts beeping. "The pager," she explains. Once again, we'd barely been able to eat anything, but by now we're used to it. I leave a check on the table and hurry after my mother.

The hospital is busier than it was before we came in. People are all around us, but to me, they aren't even there. I just see hallway upon hallway, devoid of light, in front of me. It's empty. So many people and things, yet there's nothing.

The pager beeps again. "We're coming," my mother says through gritted teeth. We finally make it to the fourth floor and I hear shouting.

"We're engaged!"

"I'm sorry, sir. You aren't allowed in the room. The patient is in surgery, and only family is permitted in the back," a crisp, female voice responds boredly.

There's a loud noise followed by a shout. "Screw you, I am family! We're getting married in a couple of months. So help me, God, if she's in there and you aren't letting me in-"

"Matthew?!" my mom and I chime in shocked unison. I wasn't expecting him to be here. I hadn't called him yet.

It never occurred to me he would hear the new second-hand and assume it was me.

He turns away from the unyielding receptionist, and relief replaces the anxiety and anger from just a moment ago. Guilt runs through me instantly. Why hadn't I thought to call him? Of course he would be worried.

I cross the room and put my arms around him, closing my eyes as his arms encase me.

Matthew is so strong. Once again, I regret not calling him. He could have been a shoulder to lean on these last few days. Knowing him, he would have left his business trip immediately if I'd asked.

"What's going on, Jena?" he asks, his voice thick with emotion. I look at my mother and she nods to the chairs in the waiting area.

"I'll fill Matt in if you check the pager, okay?" my mom smiles kindly. Sighing, I walk the pager to the secretary. This one annoys me. The cold blonde cares only about her paycheck, that much is evident.

Not in the mood for her pompous attitude, I slap the pager down in front of her.

"Update," is all I say. She visibly struggles to not give me her signature go-to-hell look, but fails. I raise an eyebrow expectantly. The blonde reaches to her right and hands me a sticky note. The scrawled note sends my heart racing, and I run over to my mother and fiancé, the latter looking horrified at just hearing about my father.

As I approach, Matthew jumps up and puts his arms around me again.

"I'm sorry, Jen. I wish you told me," he says against my hair. I wish I did too.

Not just for myself, but for Matthew as well. He loves my parents like they're his own. In a way, they have been; his parents have been gone for years. He lets me go and stares at the paper in my hands. I take a deep breath, and hand it to my mother to read aloud.

"Peterson Family," she starts. "Mr. Peterson is currently in surgery and we've located the internal damage. It's not as severe as we'd feared. He is going to be okay."

Matthew laughs as my mother and I stare at each other in shocked relief. I consider the doctor who wrote the note. It isn't typical practice for a surgeon to send out written notes with such considerate updates to waiting families, but Dr. Hamilton isn't a typical doctor.

Grinning through the tears, I hug my family. The hospital doesn't seem so empty anymore.

My father is one lucky miracle.