(no subject)
5.
I woke up as the clouds covered the sun. it was windy today. the sun felt weak.
the room was empty but for her breath, steady as a machine. in the quiet I felt her exhale echo off the window. a huge gust would rack the window now and then and everything would blend together. I felt my exhale escape me, a breath I didn’t know I’d taken, and suddenly the room rang with her absence.
outside was growing dark. it was hardly ever cold here. the locals wore sweatshirts if it dipped below 65, which used to make me laugh. back in the Midwest you celebrated when it got above freezing. here I was wearing a sweatshirt.
there’s no worse a place to confront feeling lost and alone than a hospital. this place, with its sterility and sanity and contrast, the floors scrubbed white to erase the evidence of so much death and injury and sickness. it drives within you a foreignness. I can’t help but feel absurd here, sitting alone listening to the emptiness. I imagined it was a lot like jail, exiled to your corner of a room that looks like every other, a cell lost in some huge organ. I’d never been to jail.
janet padded in softly and I must have been staring because she looked out the window before she started talking. it took me a second before I zoned in.
‘I don’t know what to tell you, calvin. she’s still not responding. we’ve sent for a specialist from LA, but he won’t get here until tomorrow. we’re watching her around the clock and will let you know immediately if something comes up.’
‘should I say goodbye to her?’
janet paused. ‘calvin, I’m so sorry…’
‘please, just tell me. should I say goodbye?’ I watched her for a minute before she nodded no. she only looked up once and walked away with a stifled sob. her eyes were full of tears.
‘janet.’
she paused before she looked up.
‘thank you. you’ve been the only decent part of this whole thing. I know you see a lot of sad scenes here, probably a couple a day, right? I know you see all that and I still see you pouring your heart out. thank you. you have no idea how dehumanizing this all is, how uncomfortable and alone I feel in this place.’
‘you’re welcome.’
she said it really quietly, between breaths.
‘is doctor…uh…doctor…?’ for the life of me I couldn’t remember his name. ‘you know, the doctor. is he here today?’
‘no. doctor Jennings should be back early tomorrow, though, if you need to talk to him.’
‘no, I need to be at work in the morning. I’ll be back in the evening.’
‘I’ll see you then, I’m on afternoon shift.’
she left the room as quietly as she entered. I turned and found myself almost surprised to find my wife laying there. even when I was speaking about her I sometimes forgot she was in the room. she used to have such a huge personality. it was hard to imagine the woman lying below me on the pale blue bed had ever laughed.
I watched her face and forgot the pulse of the monitor and the tubes in her nose, like I tried to each time I came, if only for a few moments.
and it’s in those quiet moments. I meet her memory there and we stare silently without touching. we close our eyes and the distance shrinks. I remember.
I remember.
I remember her arm around me, lying in my bed. I remember the soft sounds of her breathing, just over my shoulder. I remember our warmth. our comfort.
and oh it’s in those quiet moments! we close our eyes together.
I feel.
I feel her fingers on my shoulder. I feel her body pressed into mine. I feel her eyes on me, her face pressed into my chest. I feel her arms wrapped around me. our warmth was so uniquely ours, and it still greets me when I close my eyes. it rushes over me.
and oh it’s in those quiet moments. I make do with what I can and imagine the rest. to imagine her here, to imagine another time where we can again find ourselves together in more than just my half-awake dreams.
I pulled the curtains and left quickly, afraid to encounter anyone I knew in the halls.
I woke up as the clouds covered the sun. it was windy today. the sun felt weak.
the room was empty but for her breath, steady as a machine. in the quiet I felt her exhale echo off the window. a huge gust would rack the window now and then and everything would blend together. I felt my exhale escape me, a breath I didn’t know I’d taken, and suddenly the room rang with her absence.
outside was growing dark. it was hardly ever cold here. the locals wore sweatshirts if it dipped below 65, which used to make me laugh. back in the Midwest you celebrated when it got above freezing. here I was wearing a sweatshirt.
there’s no worse a place to confront feeling lost and alone than a hospital. this place, with its sterility and sanity and contrast, the floors scrubbed white to erase the evidence of so much death and injury and sickness. it drives within you a foreignness. I can’t help but feel absurd here, sitting alone listening to the emptiness. I imagined it was a lot like jail, exiled to your corner of a room that looks like every other, a cell lost in some huge organ. I’d never been to jail.
janet padded in softly and I must have been staring because she looked out the window before she started talking. it took me a second before I zoned in.
‘I don’t know what to tell you, calvin. she’s still not responding. we’ve sent for a specialist from LA, but he won’t get here until tomorrow. we’re watching her around the clock and will let you know immediately if something comes up.’
‘should I say goodbye to her?’
janet paused. ‘calvin, I’m so sorry…’
‘please, just tell me. should I say goodbye?’ I watched her for a minute before she nodded no. she only looked up once and walked away with a stifled sob. her eyes were full of tears.
‘janet.’
she paused before she looked up.
‘thank you. you’ve been the only decent part of this whole thing. I know you see a lot of sad scenes here, probably a couple a day, right? I know you see all that and I still see you pouring your heart out. thank you. you have no idea how dehumanizing this all is, how uncomfortable and alone I feel in this place.’
‘you’re welcome.’
she said it really quietly, between breaths.
‘is doctor…uh…doctor…?’ for the life of me I couldn’t remember his name. ‘you know, the doctor. is he here today?’
‘no. doctor Jennings should be back early tomorrow, though, if you need to talk to him.’
‘no, I need to be at work in the morning. I’ll be back in the evening.’
‘I’ll see you then, I’m on afternoon shift.’
she left the room as quietly as she entered. I turned and found myself almost surprised to find my wife laying there. even when I was speaking about her I sometimes forgot she was in the room. she used to have such a huge personality. it was hard to imagine the woman lying below me on the pale blue bed had ever laughed.
I watched her face and forgot the pulse of the monitor and the tubes in her nose, like I tried to each time I came, if only for a few moments.
and it’s in those quiet moments. I meet her memory there and we stare silently without touching. we close our eyes and the distance shrinks. I remember.
I remember.
I remember her arm around me, lying in my bed. I remember the soft sounds of her breathing, just over my shoulder. I remember our warmth. our comfort.
and oh it’s in those quiet moments! we close our eyes together.
I feel.
I feel her fingers on my shoulder. I feel her body pressed into mine. I feel her eyes on me, her face pressed into my chest. I feel her arms wrapped around me. our warmth was so uniquely ours, and it still greets me when I close my eyes. it rushes over me.
and oh it’s in those quiet moments. I make do with what I can and imagine the rest. to imagine her here, to imagine another time where we can again find ourselves together in more than just my half-awake dreams.
I pulled the curtains and left quickly, afraid to encounter anyone I knew in the halls.