This book is becoming my Personal Trauma Booklet. Trigger warning for death, fear, and old video games.

I really don't want to link the events of yesterday to Lauren, but since her birthday was yesterday, I guess I have no choice.

Yesterday was one of those days where I only got a half hour to do creative stuff. Unfortunately, my brain had some amazing song ideas. Now I'm traumatized and I'm writing to make myself feel better. If yesterday had just been a normal day, I could've written a great melody to go over this cool beat I made. 

Alas, it was not. Since I'm a teen, my body doesn't let me get up at seven, so I sang from ten to eleven, and then at eleven--the instant I started writing music--I had to do housework and stuff. I got thirty minutes of songwriting in before I had to do a thing for my school that I volunteered for. So I went there, that took three hours, and when I got home I picked up my best friend for the most eventful sleepover of her life.

I pointed out that it was Lauren Jauregui's birthday, she's 23, aka Miley Cyrus's birthday (11/23/1992), and also a great song by Miley, and isn't that wonderful? I went home, went swimming with my friend, and then we went inside for some talking, halfhearted Mad Libs, and my friend watched me passionately fangirl over Lauren Jauregui. 

And then it was 8:45. I was excited to stay up until 10:30 because I'm a rebellious teen and I get up at nine anyway, so there's no point in going to bed at nine, since I'm the same amount of tired, but with less time spent being productive. 

So then my mom got nauseous.

She leaned over, elevating her hands over her elbows to encourage bloodflow, and tells me to get a bucket because she is going to throw up. Vomit is disgusting, so I run as quickly as I can to get a trash can, empty its contents, more-or-less fling the trash can at her, and definitely fling the new trash bag at her, because she is looking like she was on the edge of emptying the contents of her stomach.

Being my squeamish self, I want to look away, go back to Mad Libs / Lauren Fangirling Session, but I am morbidly curious and watched with fascination as she holds herself over the trash can. 

She didn't throw up. No, that would be easy.

Instead, she says that she might need an ambulance. Since there's no way that she would actually need an ambulance, I stand around, kind of openmouthed and stupidly. My sister had arrived, and I think she understands what's going on more than I do. So then Mom tries to shout her wife's name but it comes out as a moan. Her wife is showering, so I yell for her, and there's a bit of a delay. I mention that Mom said she might need an ambulance, and she comes out of the shower, fully dressed (thank goodness), and sits by Mom.

Then Mom falls off the couch. 

It's more of a slumping off the couch, because she's leaned against the part where you sit, to the side like she's about to fall over. Her arms are over her head and if it weren't for the fact that her eyes were fluttering, I'd think she was dead.

My sister mentions that we may need to do CPR. I conveniently forget how to do CPR. There's something about pushing to the tempo of "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees, but I can't remember exactly where I press (is it her sternum or would that break her ribs?). There's also mouth-to-mouth, but I need the thing that goes over the mouth to prevent contamination (she said she was gonna throw up and I already ate), and also I think I need to plug her nose and tilt her head up? But I don't entirely remember and at that point, all I know could be wrong, and I could kill her.

I ask them to check for a pulse. My sister does so, reporting that yes, her heart's still beating.

By then, Mama (her wife) has already called 911 and we're waiting. My core's shaking and I can feel my heartbeat all the way down to my navel. I hug my best friend, and she squeezes back, a little too much. I let her squeeze me this time, but it makes me shakier. I just need something to hold onto, something I can control, because I can't control when the paramedics show up, or whether my mom is dying.

Is this a heart attack? No, Demi, One Direction, that's not what I meant! Get out of my head, I had Blackpink Rose's cover of "Eyes Closed" stuck in my head and I'd like to keep it that way!

I can do something, though, because Mama tells me to put her medication in a bag, so the doctors can see what she takes. I put it in a bag and run my fingers along the seal twice. Mom is still passed out, and Mama's talking to her. Sometimes she replies in a weak moan. Other times, she doesn't.

At one point, she says that she's tired, that she wants to fall asleep. My sister tells her to focus on Mama's voice. Mama tells her to stay awake. I say, "yeah."

I start thinking about what happens if she's gone. She's the main breadwinner of the household, so I would need to get a real job. No more Wattpad, no more songwriting; I would need to actually sustain our family. Mama would need a job, too. The driving situation would be worse. We'd lose our retirement, so if I wanted to keep Mama alive, I would need to get a real job. So, no more music career, because I would need a stable job. That's what would keep Mama alive, provide for her retirement, pay off the house, et cetera. Maybe I could go into programming. Right now I'm thinking I should have filled out those applications to work at Marshalls, even though the clothes are ugly and it smells dank.

Then I realize I can do something, so I stand by the door and keep an eye out for the paramedics. They finally arrive, in those comforting blue uniforms, and I direct them to where Mom is passed out. Around the bend, and there she is...so they start asking questions, bringing in a thing to record blood pressure and heart rate.

My sister's off the hook, and since she's the type of person who cries during traumatic experiences, she goes off and cries ugly tears. My best friend asks if she should leave. I beg her to stay and order her to make sure that my sister is okay.

Then I go watch the paramedics. Their recordings show that everything's normal. Then why is she passed out on the floor? They ask her some basic questions. "What year is it?" The longest wait I've ever experienced ensues. I'm screaming, "2019!" in her head. What I mean is "2019, the year that the Jonas Brothers return, and Lauren Jauregui's comeback, and Taylor Swift's new album, and Miley Cyrus's 'Mother's Daughter,' which is the best song ever. Not the 'Best Song Ever,' but it's definitely tied for fourth favorite, beaten by 'Nightmare,' 'Robot,' and 'Can't Be Tamed,' all by Miley Cyrus." 

She replies, a muffled "2019."

The paramedics ask who's crying. I say it's my sister, and she's not taking this too well. 

My heart rate is rapid, so I try to take deep singing breaths to calm it. Those don't work, so I breathe through my chest. That just makes my core shaky. I'm shaky anyway. "Camila Cabello," I mouth, "Lauren Jauregui." Since there are people around, I stop mouthing that after two repetitions. It's a bit calming, to remember that after she dies, Camila and Lauren will still be around.

This isn't fair, because Miley Cyrus is going to die at 52 (like my aunt, who did similar amounts of drugs), yet somehow my healthy mother is going to die at 46.

A few more questions, and she answers faster. "How many quarters in a dollar?" "Hm?" "How many quarters in a dollar?" "...f-Four."

They lift her onto the couch, and she uses her legs to position herself. A few more questions, and she's on a gurney, shipped away. It's nine-fifteen.

One of the policemen addresses me. He tells me that this is a thing that happens with migraines, that this is normal, and she'll probably have to deal with this for the rest of her life. I wonder if this will happen to my sister: she has a lot of the same health problems as my mother. I make a mental note to threaten her future spouse, making sure that s/t/he/y (is that the right way to spell she/he/they?) knows to call 911 in that event, and be careful with her, and to know how to prevent it.

The house is quiet when they're gone, though it's not quiet for long. My sister's best friend and her boyfriend come over, and I order them to care for her, while I take my best friend into the room with my dog (we locked her in there because she likes to jump up on new people) and we snuggle her. I start talking about my concerns, like, what's going to happen after she dies? and my best friend tells me that she didn't die, so there's no point in worrying.

I need a distraction, so I abduct my best friend and my dog, and we go into the office, with my computer in it. We play Fireboy and Watergirl for a while, but my friend sucks at it, and once we get past the familiar levels, we get bored. I shut the tab and force her to watch Hannah Montana with me. I get her hooked on the first episode (same thing that happened to me, I mean, have you seen Miley?) and we agree to watch it again.

It's now eleven, my sister's friends have left, and we go to sleep. I'm tired but whatever. Laying in bed, the fear returns, that fluttery-panicky type of heartbeat that I can feel extending from my throat to my stomach. I lay awake for at least an hour, too tired to worry but too worried to fall asleep.

Happy birthday, Lauren. I hope your day was much, much better than mine.