Personal Narrative: A Woman's Death

“401, ambulance crew needed...”
I deciphered those words too many times through the static of the dispatch system.
“... for an 89 year old female who fell.”
As per routine, I drop everything and ran to the boisterous ambulance.
As per routine, I was ready to make someone 's day better

It was the same old woman who called each Saturday, living in the same old home, alone. Of anyone, she was definitely a creature of habit. Every Saturday she would clean her home, and every Saturday she would sit down to rest, and not be able to stand back up. Her customary phone call to 911 painted an inspiring dedication to her routine. Our ordinary day with her would be simple, to help her stand up. With age came an admirable sense of wisdom that she fully embodied. After I helped her up,

Every time she affirmingly responded, “Just notice everything”. Once a week I drove to the same white colonial house at the end of a cul de sac, and once a week I walked through its vibrant red door, ready to help the old woman who fell.
Amongst a historical house - with creaking hardwood floors and a prominent smell of mothballs - the door remained pristine, drenched in a pure red. At one point, I was convinced that the wood itself was red, maybe made of some exotic oak that once stood above a thriving forest. But the last time I walked through the beaming red door, it was dull.

On a foggy Saturday afternoon, the routine dispatch called.
“401, ambulance crew needed for an 87 year old female who fell.”
This time, I passively walked to a muted ambulance. No sense of urgency fell upon me to run because I expected to help up an old woman in a white colonial house. Expectation is rarely a reality and eyes tend to deceive the mind. As we pulled up the air outside the white colonial was still. A piercing Siberian gust of wind clawed at my cheek, as if it was warning me not to go inside. I walked through the red door; the fog made it look