I can hardly remember what I did last week, or even what I had for dinner last night. The details of my daily life often slip through my fingers like grains of sand. But there’s one moment, from a few years ago, that I can still picture with unnerving clarity. 

It was the summer of 2022, and I was living the usual rhythm of sleepaway camp—afternoons by the lake, laughter, and the smell of fresh-cut grass. But on the evening of July 30, amid what should have been just another dinner of greasy pizza and campfire songs, something shifted. The world felt like it paused, holding its breath. That moment changed everything. 

I was sitting in the mess hall, savoring the fresh-out-of-the-oven pizza. The warm, cheesy aroma of it hit me as I lifted a piece from my plate. As I took a bite, the melted cheese stretched, pulling apart just enough to tease my senses. My friends and I were in the middle of a heated game of rock-paper-scissors over the last slice, when the head counselor suddenly appeared, pulled me aside, and told me I had a call. At sleepaway camp, you only get one call to your parents all summer, and I’d already had mine. I assumed something had come up, maybe something related to my medication. Confused, I took the phone. It was my brother. 

“Dad is in the hospital,” he said. “He’s alright, but he’s in the hospital.” 

The word ‘hospital’ sent my heart racing. My palms were sweating, and I was paralyzed with a wave of panic. What did this mean? 

“Don’t worry, everything is fine,” he continued. “There is nothing to worry about, we will talk more about it when you get home.” 

At 13, I always craved the full scoop. Being left with fragments of information made me squirm. 

The last two weeks of camp flew by. On the final day, I boarded the bus to the airport. I barely thought about my dad being in the hospital—Max said he was fine, and I believed him. I had no idea that the reason he was in the hospital could have meant death. 

Once the plane landed, I raced off of the walkway, exhilarated to see my parents at the baggage claim. Instead, I only saw my mom; I assumed my dad was parking the car. 

The moment our eyes locked, my mom and I rushed toward each other and embraced with all the strength we had. Seven weeks apart felt like an eternity.

“I missed you so much, Bells,” my mom exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion. 

“I missed you more,” I replied. “Where’s dad?”

“He’s still in the hospital.”

“What! Still? Max told me he was fine, that it wasn’t a big deal!”

“He is doing much better now, but…he had a heart attack while we were in the Hamptons.” 

A chill ran down my spine. My face went numb. 

As we drove to the hospital, my mom filled me in. Dad had been biking on the beach when he suddenly collapsed, twitching uncontrollably. A father and his daughter nearby rushed to help. Realizing my Dad had no pulse, the father performed CPR while his daughter ran for the lifeguards. 

For three to four minutes, CPR wasn’t working. When the lifeguards arrived, they used a defibrillator, but it failed. They tried again. Nothing. After many attempts to gain his pulse back, the marine patrol transported him from the beach to the ambulance. It wasn’t until then—after 12 minutes without a pulse—that his heart started beating again. It was a miracle he was still alive. 

When we arrived at the hospital, I entered his room cautiously. He looked different—a beard had grown in, and he seemed heavier, which was unusual because he was always in shape. 

He was asleep when I set foot in the room, so I sat down in the chair next to his bed, my mind racing with thoughts. After the shock of seeing him alive, knowing how close we had come to losing him, I felt both heavy and filled with gratitude. If not for the strangers on the beach, the lifeguards, the paramedics, he wouldn’t be here. My dad had a second chance at life. 

I realized how fragile life is, how the everyday moments with him–laughter, presence–are treasures. I’d learned the hard way how quickly things can change, and how life’s most precious memories are made from the smallest moments.  And with that thought, I made a silent promise to myself: never take for granted the time we still had together.