Atomic Habits James Clear
Shortly aer arriving, my body began shutting down. I struggled with
basic functions like swallowing and breathing. I had my rst seizure of the
day. en I stopped breathing entirely. As the doctors hurried to supply me
with oxygen, they also decided the local hospital was unequipped to handle
the situation and ordered a helicopter to y me to a larger hospital in
Cincinnati.
I was rolled out of the emergency room doors and toward the helipad
across the street. e stretcher rattled on a bumpy sidewalk as one nurse
pushed me along while another pumped each breath into me by hand. My
mother, who had arrived at the hospital a few moments before, climbed into
the helicopter beside me. I remained unconscious and unable to breathe on
my own as she held my hand during the ight.
While my mother rode with me in the helicopter, my father went home
to check on my brother and sister and break the news to them. He choked
back tears as he explained to my sister that he would miss her eighth-grade
graduation ceremony that night. Aer passing my siblings o to family and
friends, he drove to Cincinnati to meet my mother.
When my mom and I landed on the roof of the hospital, a team of nearly
twenty doctors and nurses sprinted onto the helipad and wheeled me into
the trauma unit. By this time, the swelling in my brain had become so severe
that I was having repeated post-traumatic seizures. My broken bones needed
to be xed, but I was in no condition to undergo surgery. Aer yet another
seizure—my third of the day—I was put into a medically induced coma and
placed on a ventilator.
My parents were no strangers to this hospital. Ten years earlier, they had
entered the same building on the ground oor aer my sister was diagnosed
with leukemia at age three. I was ve at the time. My brother was just six
months old. Aer two and a half years of chemotherapy treatments, spinal
taps, and bone marrow biopsies, my little sister nally walked out of the
hospital happy, healthy, and cancer free. And now, aer ten years of normal
