When my shaking ten-year-old begged me to hurry home, I had no idea a nightmare was waiting. I raced inside to find my husband and child cold and motionless on the living room rug. Paramedics rushed in, but the lead officer grabbed my arm, shaking his head. “Ma’am, this wasn’t an accident…”

I was hollowed out. My double shift as a trauma nurse at St. Jude’s Memorial had bled an hour past its scheduled demise, the collateral damage of a six-car pileup on the interstate. For twelve uninterrupted hours, my universe had consisted of suturing lacerations, stabilizing crashing vitals, and anchoring the terrified hands of strangers hovering continue reading …