The hospital room was small and bright. My dad was lying in bed, eyes closed, chest moving up and down as a machine breathed for him. Mom and I were standing on either side, holding his warm hands. The DNR had already been signed. All that was left to do was flick a switch. I watched as the green line started to fall... 120...90...80...60... It hovered around 40 for what felt like hours. That’s when my mom leaned close to his ear and whispered, “It’s ok, honey. Sarah and I are here. You can let go.” It didn’t take long after that for the line to go flat. I felt the moment it happened: the moment my dad was gone. I’m grateful I was there to say, “Goodbye.”
I was 21 when he died, a senior in college, still deciding what I wanted to do with my life. The static of possibilities quieted after that morning in the hospital. There were no more questions after that. There was simply a need to write.
The stories I tell dive below the surface. They are about regular people confronted by extraordinary events that anyone can and will probably be faced with at some point in her or his life; primal stories about love, fear, sexuality, death, told honestly without embellishment. I believe that watching theater and film shouldn’t be a passive act, but rather one that summons us to inhabit another person’s life so that we might consider our own lives through the eyes of others. It’s through this process of active storytelling that I hope to encourage honest and emotional dialogue that fosters compassion, self-reflection, personal healing, and connection.