I must have blacked out. When I open my
eyes, I’m staring at my knees. They are covered by a brand new, clean hospital
gown reaching to mid-calf. I’m sitting on the edge, the very edge, of a
hospital bed in the recovery room. A nurse is turned away with her back to me.
She fiddles with the monitor and runs her hand along the tubes that braid their
way toward my head. My other head.
I hop down and look at myself lying on the
bed. So pale. Still not breathing on my own. I sigh and then wonder how I can
sigh. My senses seem sharper. I can read the fine print on a label across the
room. I hear the two-beat thuds of a keyboard beyond the door. How can I hear
individual letters being typed sporadically? The sickly scent of antiseptic
cuts through the faint whiffs I get of the nurse’s mouthwash, deodorant, and
hand sanitizer. She turns and looks at me—well, through me, I guess.
“How ya doing, Jessica?” she whispers as
she adjusts all the paraphernalia attached to me. “Keep on fighting, sweetie.
You’re gonna pull through.”
Well, that’s encouraging. Her words warm
me. In fact, I feel warm all over. My feet no longer beg for socks; some ugly
green footies are serving my toes very well. Huh. I touch my abdomen. No pain. I
check for blood. No blood. There’s a pocket, though, and something is sticking
out. A paper. Maybe a lab report? Or discharge papers?
Or love note?
Silly me. I try to pull the paper out, but
it’s part of the pocket, stuck or glued.
“Hang in there, Jessica,” the nurse says.
I get distracted for an instant and suddenly there’s no pocket on the gown. Of
course not. Now I’m not certain I ever saw a pocket or a piece of paper. Those
super sharp sensations I experienced a moment before flee as I watch the nurse
squirt something into my IV line. I move toward the door and scoot out behind
her when she leaves.
I wander around a while trying to figure
out where my family might be. I am oddly calm, not fighting for life, or
panicking. The hallways seem dreary and lifeless. The early evening light
spoons dimpled shadows on the walls near the windowed waiting room. It’s empty.
I take the stairs and search floor by floor. All the waiting rooms are vacant.
By accident I find Keith’s room, but he’s sound asleep. I try twice but I can’t
get into his head.
The last place I look is the main floor
waiting room. It’s kind of noisy, but there’s a “grief room” in the corner. The
door is shut and a sliding sign says “occupied.” Hoping I’m invisible to whoever is inside I
will myself through the door. Easy.
I’m shocked. Rashanda. With Tyler. Not who
I was expecting to find hidden away in a grieving room.
In each other’s arms.
No way.
The tiny room has a love seat and two
chairs. They are cuddled together on the love seat. Rashanda’s head is on
Tyler’s shoulder, his arm around her, and his other hand holding one of hers.
Cozy. I don’t know why I should feel the least little twinge of jealousy, but I
do. They’re obviously very comfortable. So comfortable that they have dozed
off. I get it. They haven’t slept much the last couple of days. This is
traumatic for them. Still . . . this is . . . off.