I collapsed from overwork and woke up in the ICU, and while my family used my money to fly to the Bahamas to scout my sister’s wedding venue, a stranger stood outside my glass door every night until the nurse handed my mother the visitor log and I watched the color drain out of her face.

Chapter 3: The Visitor Log

When I dragged my eyes open again, the world had fundamentally shifted.

The harsh, blinding overhead lights of the ICU were dimmed. The chaotic, terrifying beeping of the crash cart was gone. The heavy, uncomfortable tube had been removed from my throat, replaced by a soft, quiet nasal cannula delivering cool oxygen.

I blinked, trying to clear the heavy, drug-induced fog from my brain.

I was alive. My chest ached with a deep, profound soreness, and a thick bandage covered my sternum, but the paralyzing weakness on my left side had significantly lessened. I could move my fingers. I could turn my head.

I looked around the private, quiet hospital room.

My family was not there. There were no balloons, no “Get Well Soon” cards from my mother or sister. The room was entirely empty of my blood relatives.

But I was not alone.

Sitting on the small, rolling tray table next to my bed was a beautiful, massive arrangement of white orchids. Resting perfectly beside the vase was a worn, antique hardcover copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations.

And sitting on the edge of my bed, within arm’s reach, was a standard hospital visitor log clipboard.

I slowly, agonizingly reached out with my right hand. My fingers trembled violently as I pulled the clipboard onto my lap.