I take my time making my way over to him. Another one of the walls I strategically built around my heart falls down with each step. Along with it come all of the tears I have been trying so desperately to hold in. The tears slowly leave the corner of my eyes and trickle down the side of my face onto my neck. I don’t try to stop it from falling; I don’t wipe away the wet remains from my face. The feeling it leaves behind reminds me I’m not dreaming. I need to stay focused on telling my dad to keep holding on.
“Dad, it’s me.”
Staring at his unfamiliar features, I vigorously shake my head trying to remain focused.
“Listen, I know you’re going to make it out of here okay.”
There is no other option. He has to survive this bleed.
“This surgery is going to stop the bleeding. I need you to be strong. I need you to fight through this. I need you to…”
I know I’m being selfish; I’m telling him what I need without thinking about what he needs.
But I can’t help myself.
“I need you, Dad. We all do.”
My eyes squeeze tightly shut, and I begin making a deal.
If he just fights through this, if he just makes it out of this, I promise I’ll never ask him to fight again. I’ll never ask You again. But he can’t stop fighting now. I can’t say goodbye to him like this. I need to hear him say goodbye back to me; squeeze my hand and tell me I need to stop stressing myself out. I need him to tell me the secrets to navigate my way to a successful career; tell me what exactly is in his hot salsa or secret popcorn sauce. There is so much I still need to learn from him. I need to hear him sing Folsom Blues one more time and call me about some lyrics he crafted at three in the morning. I need to hear him tell me he loves me one last time. I can’t walk away from my dad like his. I’m not giving up hope, because I know this isn’t how it is supposed to end; it can’t be.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, “Ma’am, we are going to need you to leave soon. We need to do the last steps for sterilization.”
The nurse’s eyes widen when I turn around. I’m sure mascara’s rubbed all over my face. Nodding my head, I lean down, making sure he can hear me.
“Dad, I will see you after surgery. Please, Dad. No one has given up on you, no one.”
I choke on the last words, “I love you.”
My mind is full of regrets as I walk out of the room. You should’ve said sorry. Told him how sorry you are for not coming home over spring break. Punta Cana wasn’t even worth it. I should’ve said I’m sorry for going to school in Erie; I should’ve stayed near home. “I’ll tell him I’m sorry when he wakes up tomorrow,” I reassure myself under my breath. I need him to hear me say it, not these nurses that don’t know my name. Plus, I’m already judging myself for failing as a daughter; I don’t need strangers to judge me, too.
As soon as I walk out of his room, I notice two staff members hanging yellow caution tape at the end of the hallway. What the hell is going on? I squint to read the sign, “Surgery in Process. Hall is Closed.”
My knees buckle and I hit the floor. My emotions spill out once more, and there’s no stopping them now. I rest my head in my between my knees and I begin to hyperventilate with every sob. I don’t even know what to feel anymore; what to do anymore. I’m tired and confused. Right now, I feel completely vulnerable. The footsteps of a stranger walk past me and stop. When my eyes meet his, I can tell he pities me. I wonder if I look as shitty as the girl I had seen a few hours ago.
Just wait, you will have your time on the floor crying like an idiot soon enough, I think to myself. There’s no way of masking your emotions in this place.
Part III
SUNDAY
MARCH 24TH
- NINE -
|12:01 AM|
Thomas
The room’s heavy with pain and no one is saying much, except for the priest, of course. He keeps awkwardly trying to make dialogue with everyone. Thank goodness my grandparents are here to engage in conversation because no one else has the energy to entertain him.
The best part is when Father asks for all our names and some back-story on how old we are, if we’re in school or working, and whatever other question he thinks is pertinent to understanding who we are. He says, “Learning more about us helps give better guidance.” Can he really not tell how awkward he is making us feel? We can’t openly talk about what we’re thinking because of him. With every additional question, it becomes clearer how much of a stranger he really is. It feels odd to have someone sit with us that can barely even remember our last name during one of our most vulnerable moments. Natalie walks into our room. Thank God for the interruption; it was almost my turn to give him my five-minute life story. Everyone redirects their attention to her swollen eyes and slouched back.
“We can’t go into the room anymore…”
She takes a moment to regroup, letting out a sigh.
“Something about sterilizing.”
Her eyes carry an immense amount of pain. Each one red and outlined with tired wrinkles. Her neck looks blotchy. I wonder if her throat feels as tight as mine does.
“Thank you, Father, for your time. You have helped us tremendously.”
I shoot a look at my mom. She has to be joking right?
She continues, “I think we need some time to ourselves right now. But, thank you again.”
Father responds, “Of course. I’m just glad the hospital called me.”
So, that’s who called him. I figured my mom or grandma had called for a priest.
“I will keep you in my prayers.”
Hopefully he can keep our names straight.
“God Bless.”
Mom follows him out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
I hear Kristen laugh nervously as the door latches, “That was painfully weird.”
Laughter swarms the room as everyone acknowledges the tension. I wonder what people passing by think when they hear the private room busting out laughing.
Dawn
“Thank you again for coming.” I know he hasn’t been the most helpful, but it gives me peace to have a priest with us tonight.
“Of course. I wish you the best and, like I said, I’ll keep you and your family in my prayers.”
“Father, there is one last thing.”
I can’t help my fingers from fidgeting with my wedding ring.
“I know I explained earlier how Corey isn’t Catholic, but I was wondering if you had time to give him his last rites if by any chance he passes away.”
I’d rather be safe than sorry.
“Unfortunately, I can’t. I won’t even be able to give him a final blessing because he isn’t practicing. I can stand outside of his room and pray for his soul with you, but I can’t go into his room and read him his final rites.”
My heart stops before it drops. My entire body tightens as I process what this priest has just said to me. You have got to be kidding me!
I wonder if Father can see the rage building up inside of me. He better leave this hospital soon because my tongue is about to start bleeding as I bite down on it, holding back how I really feel. My husband is not someone who will contaminate you. He is a loving father who gives his all to everyone around him. How dare you tell me you can’t go into his room and read him his rites! It’s priests like you that cause the number of practicing Catholics to decline. It’s not up to you to decide who makes it into heaven; you don’t get to pick who can receive their final rites. If the entrance to heaven is based solely on how good of a practicing Catholic you are and not about the purity of your soul, then God help all of us.
“You know what…”
My eyes narrow as the glare sets in.
“That won’t be necessary.”
How sad that in my time of greatest need a man of the collar is turning his back on me.
|1:17 AM|
Thomas
At this point, my legs have probably run three marathons with how vigorously I am shaking th
em. I have counted every tile on the floor and ceiling as I try to avoid eye contact with everyone else, trying to process what is going on around me.
My mom keeps rambling, “We all need to go to bed. It’s still going to be awhile until the surgery starts and the doctor warned me it’s going to be a long procedure.”
Her head turns around the room, searching for agreement.
“It’s already Sunday,” she continues.
I can’t believe it’s already Sunday.
Grandma looks up at her, “We can come back in the morning and go to 8 AM mass at the church down the street.”
Going to church is the last thing I feel like doing. Especially if it means there is a possibility of running into Father. I don’t think I can ever look at him without thinking about his snow globe monologue. I still don’t get how we’re supposed to find comfort in comparing our lives to snowflakes, but maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention to grasp the ultimate meaning of the parable. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
My grandpa stands up with my grandma and tells Mom, “Call us if anything changes.” They both make their rounds among us, passing out hugs and kisses.
Once they leave the room, Kristen breaks the silence. “I’m not going anywhere. I can sleep on the couch.”
“Where will Mom sleep then?” I respond back to her. I know the surgeon isn’t going to let her into Dad’s room, at least not until the surgery is over.
Without hesitation, she answers. “I’ll take the chair, the floor, I don’t care.” Her voice has tiredness and anger interwoven.
“Listen, everyone is going home. I will call you when the surgery is over and you can come back to see him. I need everyone well-rested.” Mom sounds more serious now.
She keeps saying that she needs everyone well rested, but I’m starting to wonder if she needs time alone. Time to process. Time to think.
Natalie looks exhausted, but equally serious. “You have to call us if anything changes and after every single update, big or small. Even if it’s just a nurse telling you how much longer until the procedure is over.”
I watch as her eyes soften before meeting Mom’s eyes.
“Please.”
“I know, I will.” Mom’s voice is as fragile as her body appears.
I know she doesn’t intentionally leave us in the dark.
“Seriously, go. I can’t fall asleep if everyone stays.”
Mom knows when she says that, it will convince us all to leave. We’re all concerned with the little amount of sleep she is getting, and we’ll do anything to help her get even a minute of rest.
Brandon hugs my mom and she kisses him on the check. I hope Brandon knows how grateful we are to have him here. No one else has the energy to console Kristen or put up with Natalie’s mood swings. If he wasn’t here to step up and be there for everyone when they are falling apart, I can’t imagine how this would be going right now. I can’t imagine how many f-bombs my grandparents would have to listen to before they each had a heart attack.
Kristen
The elevator ride seems incredibly slow in the parking garage. It has just enough shakiness to make you wonder if this is going to be the trip it decides to break.
“My gut is telling me Dad is going to be okay.” Natalie doesn’t look up from the floor when she begins to speak.
When no one answers, she raises her head up. Her eyes are wide and she looks scared. Her voice sounded so confident; yet her facial expression is telling a different story.
“I’m serious guys. I have such a good feeling.”
She isn’t looking for someone to agree with her; she’s looking for someone to reassure her. I don’t have the strength to be that person for her.
“That’s great Natalie. I think it’s important to trust your gut.” Thomas is trying to protect her. We can’t let her be so naïve.
I begin to answer, “I’m honestly not sure anymore.” But when my eyes lock with Natalie’s eyes I change my mind. Maybe she isn’t naïve, maybe she is right. Maybe I am being too quick to give up. “But… I do know Dad can do anything he sets his mind to.”
Is this really Dad’s decision?
Brandon chimes in, “I think it’s great the doctors haven’t given up hope and they keep wanting to perform more surgeries. I think that’s a really good sign.”
The prior ICU doctor’s words flash through my mind. “Tonight is a different story.”
If only he heard what the ICU doctor told me before the transfer. Are we the ones that keep deciding to stay on this roller coaster ride of emotions? We convince ourselves we hear good news when really we haven’t?
Natalie begins to smile and eagerly shakes her head in agreement, “Yeah, me too.” She takes Brandon’s hand, pulls him close, and whispers, “I think it’s all going to be alright.”
I redirect to the floor. I can’t watch her anymore.
Damn, I hope she is right.
|1:48 AM|
Kristen
By the time we make it home to Mom’s house, Natalie and Brandon are already asleep in the back seat. With a gentle nudge, Thomas wakes them up, and we all head to separate rooms. My bedroom feels so cold and lonely. Natalie is lucky she has Brandon with her. She never dated anyone before him, and we all joked in high school that her first boyfriend would be the man she marries.
I wish I had someone beside me right now, someone to make me feel less isolated. I reach for my phone and find Matt’s number. We dated my freshman and sophomore year of college. Natalie wasn’t a fan of him from the start, but she is always so critical of my boyfriends. He ended up cheating on me later, but I never told Natalie because I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being right about him being an asshole.
I know we will never get back together, but I still want to talk to him right now. I need someone to comfort me. I text him, “you up by any chance?” but before I hear my phone ding with his response, my body succumbs to my exhaustion, and I fall asleep.
|2:29 AM|
Dawn
My eyes slowly start to open. The room is so bright. I need a minute to adjust my eyes to the lighting. I look down at my watch to see what time it is, but it’s charging in the back corner when it died a few hours ago. I can’t remember where I put my phone. How long have I been asleep? Did the surgery begin? Wrapping my head around each question, adrenaline rushes through my body and hoists me off the couch.
I sprint into the hallway, looking for someone to give me an update. A flash of blackness falls like a blanket over my vision, and I realize I must’ve gotten up too quickly from a deep sleep. When my blurred vision returns, I notice the yellow caution tape is still hanging and chairs are blocking anyone from going beyond the roped-off hallway. The only people I can see are nurses outside of the room waiting to help if needed.
There is a crowd of additional nurses and doctors in Corey’s room. No one even notices I’m making my way down the hallway because the room’s commotion is consuming all of their attention. I can peek through the Venetian blinds when I jump high enough. I find immense comfort in being able to see Corey again. I’m right here, Corey; I’m watching from right here.
I hear a voice call out, “It’s all black, doctor. What should we do?”
Another voice firmly responds, “Remove it.”
Remove what? I start jumping higher and faster now. My breath gets heavier with each leap.
“Mrs. Owen?” One nurse spots me in the hall; her eyes squinting trying to make sure it’s really me. I recognize her. She’s the one who pulled me into the private room last night. She told me the doctor needed to open the wound again to see what he’s dealing with before assessing the next steps.
The doctor orders an assistant to do something, but I can’t make out this voice anymore. I watch the assistant slowly approach the window. Suddenly, my brain pieces it together; he is drawing the blinds so they can’t see me jumping up and down like a lunatic. The man looks at me with the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen. He doe
sn’t even break eye contact as he pulls the blinds shut. I can’t tell if he is disgusted with me or pities me.
The sight of Corey is officially gone; the only bit of comfort I had is now completely taken away from me. I can’t see Corey! I can’t protect him!
“No! Don’t close the blinds! You can’t do this!”
This is my fucking right!
“Someone needs to tell me what is going on right now! I am his wife! I have rights! My husband has rights! I need to protect him!”
None of the nurses sitting outside the room will face me; none dare to look me in the eyes. They don’t realize I’m not going to stop making a scene until someone tells me what is going on and why I’m being left in the dark… alone and confused.
“Look at me!” I scream. “Tell me what the hell is going on…right now!”
My grief is being pushed to the side by my newfound anger. Why the hell didn’t someone come wake me up? I should’ve been told when the surgery was beginning! What are they hiding from me?!
As my head is spinning, I notice a nurse turn her head towards me. Her blonde hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail. Her tired eyes meet mine. Sympathy is radiating from her green eyes, and in this moment I can feel her trying so desperately to take away some of my sorrow. “I’m so sorry ma’am. I will get one of the doctors in the room to come out immediately and give you an update.”
I think she can tell I’m contemplating jumping over the chairs.
“Please, just wait in the hallway. You can’t come beyond the tape for safety matters.”
I blurt out, “How long has he been in surgery?”
I don’t wait for a response before continuing.
“Why didn’t someone wake me up?”
“Ma’am, I’ll go get a doctor to come talk to you.”
I’m not accepting that answer, not anymore. I’m tired of being left in the dark trying to figure this out on my own. I demand again, “How long has he been in surgery?!”
The discontent is written all over my face, but yet, she pauses before answering. How hard of a question is this to answer?
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