The baby giggles as I give her a weak smile, with the little energy I have left. The scene doesn't feel particularly urgent. The typical emergency room - white walls, white square tile, a long line of parents with crying babies, and a shielded front desk - disappears. Gone.

"It’s happening again, Mom," are the last words I try to whisper before my eyes roll back and my head falls heavy into her arms. I can’t see or process anything, but I still remember sensory things, pieces of it, somehow. The sounds of yelling voices, scattered feet, the feeling of being too cold, and an overall sense of chaos. Nothing about this experience is calm, yet I somehow find peace - not my peace, but a peace and certainty that the unknown I was experiencing wasn’t all that unknown. It was as if I were just along for the ride and I couldn't do anything about it.

¨I need help!" My mom later depicts how she shrieked as she wheeled me forward, jumping the line. Wide-eyed, the receptionist frantically asks for my name and date of birth. ¨I don't think she's ok!¨ Urgent, flying nurses roll me into the resuscitation room. Soon people start descending on the room from every direction as the minutes race by. Mom would later describe those same people throwing me on the table in the center of the room, ripping off my clothes, and wrapping me in blankets. I vaguely remember the chill of the cold air as I was moved onto the table.

Quickly, they attach me to cords and machines to track my vitals, racing against time as the seconds turn to minutes and I am still unconscious. The nurses try everything: smelling salts, the sternum rub, poking, prodding, anything that would cause my body to come out of this dance with the reality of darkness and the dreaminess of sleep.

¨Beep,¨ the machine tracking my heart sounds again.

I still do not wake up. My mom later admits to me this could have been the end of my life. Even the doctors were startled, mentioning strange diagnoses in the aftermath.

As I lay in the hospital bed after, trying to recover, unanswered questions circle my mind: If I die, will I regret not having lived a purposeful life? What about the times I did not go after something because I was scared?

¨Beep.¨

I hear it but cannot move. I am frozen on the cold table. A small doctor comes flying into the room with his fist cocked. The doctor pounds on my chest multiple times, and the severe pain brings me back as I gasp for breath. Another pound and I fully come to, not fearful, but rather feeling held in God's hands. I came to realize that life is a fragile thing.

Afterwards, I promised myself to stop living my life safely, afraid of getting hurt, afraid of what other people think, and afraid of failure. If this is my time, I want to know that I put my best foot forward and left with no regrets.

Likewise, as we look back on the ideals America was founded on, we see life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Our ancestors fought hard and overcame much hardship to obtain this dream. Let’s not take for granted this gift but maximize it. Not by living life in the confines of our own comfortability or fragility, but by achieving great things in the time given. My hope is that no one experiences the feeling of regret in their last minutes on earth, but can instead look back on all their blessings and memories with joy and gratitude.

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