On the fateful night of July 12th, 2022, at 2:30 am, again my world was suddenly torn apart. Startled from a deep slumber, the relentless chime of the doorbell pierced through the silence of the night, a sound that never bodes well.
Carl, my beloved, lay in his hospital bed in the living room, closest to the front door. With a heavy heart, I made my way down the dimly lit hallway, anticipating the worst. As I peered through the front door's glass, a blinding flashlight danced outside, casting eerie shadows. It was the police, I had guessed right.
With trepidation, I opened the door, and the officer uttered the words that sent shivers down my spine: "I'm here to do a wellness check on Carl Osberg." The puzzling nature of his statement left me baffled. We were already three years into Carl's debilitating stroke; wellness checks didn't make sense. I demanded to know who had summoned them. The answer was as foreign as the caller's name from California. She couldn't quite explain why, but she was desperate to check on Carl's well-being.
Leading the officer to the living room, I found Carl awake. The officer inquired about his condition, to which Carl responded as best he could. I seized the opportunity to pull the officer into the kitchen, determined to uncover the truth. It was the middle of the night, and the situation was shrouded in mystery.
With pen and paper in hand, I implored the officer for more information. The name he provided was unfamiliar, further deepening the enigma. I requested the caller's phone number and diligently recorded it. Nothing added up, so I asked him to dial the number and allow me to speak with the person on the other end.
A voice with broken English echoed through the receiver, pleading for "Cansel." It was for me. Taking the officer's phone, I responded in my native tongue, "This is Cansel speaking." The voice on the other end revealed a dire situation: we were unknown to them, they resided in California, friends of my mom's neighbor, and they had been trying to reach me for hours. An emergency in Turkey demanded my immediate attention. I relayed this message to the officer, who waited patiently.
With an 8-hour time difference, it was approximately 10:30 am in Turkey. I FaceTimed my mom, her tear-streaked face confirming the gravity of the situation. She was surrounded by familiar faces. A friend took the phone and recounted the tragic events of that morning.
My parents, enjoying breakfast on their balcony as they always did, were suddenly disrupted. My father, feeling dizzy, decided to rest on the living room couch. My mom handed him an aspirin, urging him to take it easy. As she returned to the balcony to clear the breakfast table, a deafening crash shattered the tranquility. Rushing inside, she found my father on the floor, blood trickling from his nose.
He had suffered a massive heart attack, falling forward and striking the dining room table. His passing was swift and merciful. Considering Carl's prolonged battle with stroke, I found solace in the swiftness of my father's departure. It spared my aging mother the torment of caregiving exhaustion, sparing her the agony of watching him deteriorate as I had with Carl. My father was 88 years old when he passed.
Immediate burial arrangements were made, and I desperately sought someone to care for Carl for a few nights. I wanted to be by my father's side, to bid my final farewell, to offer support to my grieving mother. However, the search yielded no one willing to stay overnight, and professional caregiver agencies charged exorbitant fees. The sudden airline ticket cost only added to our financial woes, already strained by Carl's medical expenses.
My brother, the only family member in America, quickly secured a flight and was on his way. Regrettably, I was compelled to remain behind, bearing the heavy responsibility of Carl's care due to the absence of nighttime assistance.
I was devastated and, for the first time since Carl's stroke, found myself harboring anger toward him. Our lives had taken a tragic turn, and I questioned when this relentless nightmare would finally come to an end. The answer would come within the next eight months, and life would again take a heartbreaking turn.
