theatrical_muse #17: Time
Time.
Time is a funny thing. There are moments when you think you have all the time in the world. And, it’s in those moments where you decide not to tell your best friend something because you assume you can tell her later, that there will be a later, because time isn’t an issue. But, then time stops. It stops because she almost dies, was almost dead. Then everything shuts down - suddenly, there’s no one else around, there’s no where else to be, because time has stopped and one of the few things that matters could be taken away from you.
I went shopping. Everyone has their own way of dealing when the world falls apart. I shop, compulsively, at the dollar store. You can get anything there, and when times stops, you should always be prepared for the fall out. So, I walked up and down the aisles, not even looking, just grabbing and buying. Because I could, I can. It was something I had control over, something time couldn’t change or take away. Then, I went to the bar, because where else do you go when you’re afraid and pretending that you’re not? I drank a little, showed Joe all the great, American things you can buy for a dollar, and stayed comfortable in denial. But Burke showed up and told me I really should say goodbye to my person, to my friend.
They were going to call it… they were actually going to give up and call time. How can you call time of death when time has stopped? Couldn’t anyone else tell time had stopped? It felt like the world was in black-and-white, that all the color was stripped of it, because she was fading away. I don’t make friends; I’ve never had a need for them. But, she is my person. She calls me her sister, her family. And, she was the only person I wanted, needed to tell about my engagement. Because, Burke could tell everyone else, but not Meredith. I had to tell her. And time stopped the moment I couldn’t tell her, the moment I realized that she might not be there for another moment.
She looked so lifeless and vacant. She shouldn’t have been on that table, hooked up to the machines, having her peers work relentlessly on her. I should’ve gone instead, because I wanted to go, and she would’ve been safe in the hospital… it never would have happened, and I would’ve gotten to do amazing surgeries out in the middle of a disaster. But, no, instead, I had to stay at the hospital, and Mer had to go and drown. Why didn’t she swim? She knows how to swim. She didn’t fight, didn’t swim. She just… why? And, why didn’t anyone find her sooner? I asked everyone where she was. No one knew. Didn’t anyone notice? I would’ve noticed that she was gone. I would’ve noticed. I would have been doing surgeries, non-stop, but I would’ve noticed.
Time was moving when I told her to nevermind, that I would tell her later, that it could wait. And then time stopped. And I was there, not ready to say goodbye. Because who says goodbye to their best friend? Who says goodbye to the one person who matters? It’s one thing if you have a patient that doesn’t make it. You still do surgery, learn from the experience, and move on to the next case. But, you don’t stand there, over your person, say your goodbyes, and call time of death. You don’t. No. You demand that they try again. You demand that they save her. Because she doesn’t get to die. She doesn’t get off easy, doesn’t get to give up, and they don’t get to give up either.
And, then her heart was beating again. Her heart was beating, and time was moving. And I was there, telling her she had to just say something, because she was alive, and she couldn’t be brain damaged or vacant or anything except dark and twisty, because she’s Meredith, and I love her. She said ouch. And, that was enough, because time was moving again and I could tell her about being engaged and saying yes and all the things she could buy if she ever needed retail therapy. Time is funny, because it can feel like you have forever when really, it can stop without a moment’s notice.
Time is a funny thing. There are moments when you think you have all the time in the world. And, it’s in those moments where you decide not to tell your best friend something because you assume you can tell her later, that there will be a later, because time isn’t an issue. But, then time stops. It stops because she almost dies, was almost dead. Then everything shuts down - suddenly, there’s no one else around, there’s no where else to be, because time has stopped and one of the few things that matters could be taken away from you.
I went shopping. Everyone has their own way of dealing when the world falls apart. I shop, compulsively, at the dollar store. You can get anything there, and when times stops, you should always be prepared for the fall out. So, I walked up and down the aisles, not even looking, just grabbing and buying. Because I could, I can. It was something I had control over, something time couldn’t change or take away. Then, I went to the bar, because where else do you go when you’re afraid and pretending that you’re not? I drank a little, showed Joe all the great, American things you can buy for a dollar, and stayed comfortable in denial. But Burke showed up and told me I really should say goodbye to my person, to my friend.
They were going to call it… they were actually going to give up and call time. How can you call time of death when time has stopped? Couldn’t anyone else tell time had stopped? It felt like the world was in black-and-white, that all the color was stripped of it, because she was fading away. I don’t make friends; I’ve never had a need for them. But, she is my person. She calls me her sister, her family. And, she was the only person I wanted, needed to tell about my engagement. Because, Burke could tell everyone else, but not Meredith. I had to tell her. And time stopped the moment I couldn’t tell her, the moment I realized that she might not be there for another moment.
She looked so lifeless and vacant. She shouldn’t have been on that table, hooked up to the machines, having her peers work relentlessly on her. I should’ve gone instead, because I wanted to go, and she would’ve been safe in the hospital… it never would have happened, and I would’ve gotten to do amazing surgeries out in the middle of a disaster. But, no, instead, I had to stay at the hospital, and Mer had to go and drown. Why didn’t she swim? She knows how to swim. She didn’t fight, didn’t swim. She just… why? And, why didn’t anyone find her sooner? I asked everyone where she was. No one knew. Didn’t anyone notice? I would’ve noticed that she was gone. I would’ve noticed. I would have been doing surgeries, non-stop, but I would’ve noticed.
Time was moving when I told her to nevermind, that I would tell her later, that it could wait. And then time stopped. And I was there, not ready to say goodbye. Because who says goodbye to their best friend? Who says goodbye to the one person who matters? It’s one thing if you have a patient that doesn’t make it. You still do surgery, learn from the experience, and move on to the next case. But, you don’t stand there, over your person, say your goodbyes, and call time of death. You don’t. No. You demand that they try again. You demand that they save her. Because she doesn’t get to die. She doesn’t get off easy, doesn’t get to give up, and they don’t get to give up either.
And, then her heart was beating again. Her heart was beating, and time was moving. And I was there, telling her she had to just say something, because she was alive, and she couldn’t be brain damaged or vacant or anything except dark and twisty, because she’s Meredith, and I love her. She said ouch. And, that was enough, because time was moving again and I could tell her about being engaged and saying yes and all the things she could buy if she ever needed retail therapy. Time is funny, because it can feel like you have forever when really, it can stop without a moment’s notice.