Witnessing death was something that came surprisingly easy for me. I didn’t scream, I didn’t become sick, I was oddly settled. When my father pulled over to the side of the road and assisted a man who was a victim of a hit and run, instead of cowering into my mother’s arms, I jumped out of the car as well, and listened to the orders that my father shouted to me. As I assisted in rendering aid, I noticed that despite the bone protruding out of the man’s body, the bruises blanketing his body, and the dangerously large amounts of blood that he was exsanguinating, sudden realization of the situation entered into my mind. This was not an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, this was real. The man’s life faded away as I saw the disappointment wash over my
