by Erin Noelle
I don’t wait for a reply from him or anyone else before I rush over to where they’re loading Lyra in the back of the ambulance. The sight of her battered and swollen face once again steals all the air from my lungs. She’s almost unrecognizable.
The door to the back closes and the paramedic from earlier jingles his keys in front of my face to break me from my trance. “Get in the front and buckle up. We’re about to haul ass.”
“How is she?” I ask breathlessly.
His sagging shoulders and grim expression speaks volumes. “Every minute is critical.”
I look at his numbers—123118—and nod, wishing he realized how true his own words are.
“Then, let’s go. Time is wasting.”
Dislocated shoulder and elbow.
Broken forearm and wrist.
Multiple cracked ribs.
Intracerebral hematoma and considerable brain swelling.
Immediate surgery.
Medically-induced coma.
Intensive care.
Critical condition.
Unknown timetable.
Questionable prognosis.
I hear the words, but I can’t wrap my head around them. And after waiting for hours that seemed like days while they evaluated and ran the full gamut of tests on Lyra, I’m left with more questions than I started with after the doctor updates us on her condition. Plus, they’ve had her in the back since we got here, and if I don’t see my wife really fucking soon, I’m going to lose my shit.
But I can’t. Not for a while. They’re already prepping her for surgery to drain some of the blood from her brain and hopefully decrease the pressure and swelling. The surgeon estimated the procedure will take somewhere between four to six hours and urged us to go get a bite to eat or some coffee. But there’s no way I’m leaving this waiting area until I know she’s safely out of the OR. Not a chance in hell.
“Sammy and I are gonna go down to the cafeteria for a little bit. This room has started closing in on us and we need a bit of fresh air,” Ma murmurs, softly touching my arm. “Do you wanna come with us?”
I shake my head but don’t look at her. I can’t tear my eyes from the double doors that lead to where Lyra is fighting for her life. “I’m not leaving.”
“Okay, honey. We’ll bring you something up when we come back.” She pats my shoulder, and I’m thankful she doesn’t push me. “Call me if you need me or if you get any kind of update. We shouldn’t be gone too long.”
“I will.”
Once they leave, I slump back in a chair and blow out a jagged breath. From the best Thanksgiving ever to the worst night of my life, the last four hours have left me drained and depleted. I will never be able to erase the image of Lyra’s body flying like a rag doll through the air and crashing to the ground, or how she looked completely bent and broken when I first got to her.
Soon after we arrived at the hospital, the police had me give my statement three different times to three different detectives, and all of them asked me to describe the scene in as much detail as possible. Saying the words aloud, admitting I thought she was dead, damn near destroyed me each time. But I was adamant to tell them everything I remembered, every word Annie said to me afterward, to make sure she can be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
The fact I used to love and live with that woman sends shivers down my spine. I have no idea who she’s become or what happened to the girl I met all those years ago, but the only feeling I harbor for her after tonight is pure hatred. She tried to kill Lyra, and I will never forgive her.
My mom and Sammy come back a while later and I eat whatever sandwich they bring for me, though I don’t taste a bite of it. They whisper quietly between each other as I sit and stare straight ahead. Going into energy preservation mode, my mind and body both shut down all elective functioning and I focus simply on the moment when the doctor returns with more news.
And finally, after the most agonizing wait of my life, the slim older man walks into the room still dressed in his scrubs and gives me a faint nod with a hopeful smile, just as the morning sun peeks through the blinds for the first time.
“She made it through the procedure and is currently stable,” he announces right away, thankfully not making us wait. “We’re going to keep her in a drug-induced coma to relieve as much pressure from the skull and brain as possible, and later today, we will do another CT scan to determine if we’ve stopped the bleeding and if the swelling has started to recede. The next twelve to twenty-four hours are crucial, and she’ll be under constant monitoring. I will keep you updated if anything changes.”
He moves to turn and leave, but I leap out of my chair and catch him by the elbow before he makes it two steps.
“Wait!” I exclaim, my voice hoarse and my tone desperate. “When can I see her? I need to see her.”
Glancing down at his watch, he thinks for a minute, and then says, “I’ll let just you, the husband, in with her for about five minutes now, even though it’s not quite time for morning visiting hours. But then I’m going to ask for no visitors until this evening’s time block from 6:00 to 9:00. Hopefully, by then, we’ll have some good news to tell you.”
I release his arm once I realize I’m still holding on to it and thank him for everything. A little bit of good news and no additional bad news… I’ll take it. And even better, I get to see her.
Now, I just need her date to come back. I’d do anything to see those six numbers again.
TAVIAN
12.01.15
“So what do you say, buttercup? Would you rather stay at The Knickerbocker or Casablanca Hotel for New Year’s? I’m torn and can’t decide. Classic luxury or modern chic?”
I peer over the top of my laptop screen to where Lyra lays motionless in the hospital bed, hooked up to more machines than I care to think about. The entire left side of her body looks like something out of a war movie—from the shaved patches of hair behind her ear where they did the surgery, to her swollen, battered, and bruised face, to the white plaster cast that stretches from the knuckles of her fingers almost all the way to the crease of her underarm. She’s almost unrecognizable if you look at her from that side, but somehow, her right half came away nearly unscathed, suffering only a few superficial cuts and scrapes.
Of course, she doesn’t respond verbally, but that doesn’t mean I stop talking to her. The first couple of days Lyra was here, I was only allowed to visit for three hours in the morning and three in the evening, which left a lot of time for me to try to keep my mind occupied and not lose my shit and do something stupid. Like pay a visit to Annie at her parents’ house, where she’s staying since she posted bail. I constantly have to remind myself I’m no good for Lyra when she wakes up if I’m in prison.
Instead, I spent the time educating myself on Lyra’s injuries and condition, preparing myself for what to expect and things to watch for. Then, when I came for visiting hours yesterday morning, the doctor delivered the good news. For three straight days, the tests results showed a significant decrease in the swelling of the brain tissue and there was no sign of additional bleeding, so it was time to gradually ween her off the anesthesia and see how her body would react.
It’s been a little over twenty-four hours since that process began, and thankfully, they’re letting me stay with her around the clock now, so there will be a familiar face here once she wakes up. The doctors continue to remind me there’s no way to predict what she’s going to be like when—and if—she regains consciousness. It doesn’t take any of my fancy statistical analyses to determine the odds of having both short and long-term memory loss, damage to one or more of her senses, and altered motor skills are all relatively high. But as long as Lyra remembers who I am and still wants to be with me, I can work around anything else. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure her quality of life is the best possible for as many days as she has left. As long as we’re together.
I refuse to acknowledge the slight chance that, even once the drugs are no longer
in her blood stream, she will never open her eyes again. That her brain will never switch back into the On position. I’m not sure why her numbers haven’t come back yet like everyone else’s have, but I won’t give up on her. I trust in the timing of everything, even if I am an impatient asshole.
That’s why I’m sitting here going over the details of our upcoming trips with her. No, not because I actually believe we’ll be taking any of them as planned; despite my optimistic attitude toward life, I’m still very much a realist kept grounded by hard statistical data. But I’m doing it for the slim chance she can actually hear me. If she’s drifting somewhere in the gray area between the realm of awareness and unconsciousness as the medicine works its way out of her system, I want her to know I’m right here by her side. My belief in her—in us—hasn’t faltered. Not for a second.
“Mr. West,” Dana, the sixty-something silver-haired nurse who has been assigned to Lyra for the last twelve hours, calls my name from the other side of the room as she erases her name from the dry erase board. “It’s about to be shift change. Is there anything I can get you before I head out? A snack or coffee or anything?”
I glance over and offer her an appreciative smile with the shake of my head. “No, thanks, I’m good. Plus, Ma will be here soon, and I’m sure she’ll have enough breakfast food with her to feed the entire floor again.”
“Well, if it’s half as good as the dinner she brought up for all of us last night, I’m already jealous of the next shift.” The older woman chuckles lightly as she grabs the tablet she uses to enter Lyra’s medical information in and then makes her way to the door. Stopping just before she pulls on the stainless lever, Dana looks at me over her shoulder and says with conviction, “Don’t stop talking to her. I’ve worked in Intensive Care for over twenty years, and I assure you, they can hear. Even if she can’t decipher what you’re saying quite yet, the sound of your voice will soothe and strengthen her. She’ll follow it into the light.”
She quietly slips out the oversized door—wide enough for hospital beds and equipment to be easily wheeled in and out of—as her words bounce around in my head. I’ve read multiple articles online about people who have been in comas and claim they could hear things going on around them, and maybe it’s because I want so badly for it to be true for my own circumstances right now, but I believe them. And to hear a nurse who specializes in this area of medicine say she thinks they can hear too, I feel validated in my opinion.
“All right, Mrs. West, we’ve got about ten minutes alone before the next nurse comes in. We need to be fast so we don’t get caught,” I say aloud as I transfer my computer from my lap to the small table and stand up from the tiny couch—which is also my bed for the foreseeable future.
I stride across the cold white linoleum floor to the right side of her bed, still in the Pluto: Never Forget T-shirt Lyra picked out for me in Barcelona and plaid flannel pajama pants I slept in, and bend down to kiss the corner of her dry, cracked, and barely parted lips. No matter how much or how often I spread Aquaphor on them, they soak it up almost immediately.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I whisper as I rest my forehead against the uninjured side of hers. “You ready to come back yet? I don’t want to take all these trips by myself, and you know how much I suck at using your camera. Who will take all the pictures if you don’t come with me?”
I back away a couple inches, far enough where I can gaze down on her face for a few heartbeats before positioning my forefinger and thumb on the top and bottom of her eyelid, saying a little prayer in the process. “Please, God, please let her numbers be there. I know it’s only four and a half more months, but I need every single one of those days. I’ll do anything.”
I suck in a deep breath and hold it ballooned in my lungs as I pry open her eye and wait for the pupil to float into view. “Holy shit,” I hiss when the six-digit number appears, staring up at me clear as day in vibrant white.
The uncontrollable trembling starts in my fingers and toes but spreads across my entire body faster than a wildfire in a drought. Beads of sweat dot my forehead along my hairline, and my palms are sticky and clammy, but I can’t stop my teeth from chattering loudly together. My brain is in such a state of shock from what I see that it’s glitching and playing tricks on me.
Those aren’t…. That can’t be…. No one else’s did that.
I close my own eyes and count to ten, then reopen them and focus on Lyra’s pupil once again. The same six numbers I saw moments ago—031476—are still imprinted in the dilated black center, and the blue iris surrounding it is no longer dull and lifeless.
She’s in there. My girl is still in there fighting. And if I’m not hallucinating right now, she’s suddenly got an extra sixty years to fight for.
“They’re back! Your numbers are back!” I shout much louder than I should in the ICU wing, unable to contain my excitement. “You’re gonna be okay! Do you hear me, buttercup? Everything’s gonna be great… even better than it was before.”
I pepper kisses on every inch of Lyra’s face that’s not marked or discolored as tears of relief and happiness blur my vision. She’s far from out of the woods, and even in the best-case scenario, the road to recovery will most likely be long and full of challenges. But none of that matters, because we’ll always have each oth—
Wait. I don’t know if my number changed along with Lyra’s, or if it stayed the same from before they disappeared. I just kind of assumed it did what hers did, but I don’t have any real reason to think that. What if she’s now going to live well into her eighties, but I’m still going to—
“Mr. West, is everything okay?”
“What happened, Mr. West?”
“Did she move?”
“Did she open her eyes?”
“Or talk?”
My depressing thoughts are sharply cut off as three nurses burst into the room, yelling out questions as they push me out of the way and surround the bed. They each check a different machine, speaking in a medical language I’m just beginning to understand, and then turn to observe the unmoving Lyra.
“She didn’t move or talk yet,” I tell them. “But it’s coming. Soon.”
The three women turn to face me, waiting for an explanation for why I screamed and why I seem so sure Lyra’s close to waking up. I can’t exactly tell them about her numbers, but I need them to believe me that something happened. The numbers weren’t there at all last night, and now she has new ones!
“Her eyes opened,” I blurt out, at least keeping my lie to the right body part. “I was at her bed and they opened, and she looked directly at me, like she knew who I was, before they closed. That’s why I shouted. I was trying to get her to open them again.”
With a collective nod, the nurses fly into action mode, and before I know it, I’ve been ushered out of the room and into the waiting area as the doctor arrives to evaluate Lyra. They won’t find anything in their medical testing that will explain why her numbers suddenly appeared or why they’re different than before, but maybe something they do will trigger her to wake up. I’m growing desperate.
My mom arrives while I’m still in the waiting room, her arms loaded down with an assortment of breakfast goodies she made herself. I immediately rush to her side to help before she drops everything, and we then spend the next thirty minutes passing out the food to the hospital staff and other family members visiting loved ones on the floor. I excitedly tell her the same story about Lyra’s eyes opening that I told the nurses, and even though it’s not the truth of what actually happened, the emotion behind it is genuine.
I just can’t allow myself to think about my own numbers.
Ma and I return to the waiting room—my most hated space in this entire hospital—and eat our own breakfast while we do more of the dreaded W-word. Finally, after an hour or so, the doctor walks up and greets us with a professional smile, but I instantly sense the hesitation in his demeanor and I switch in to high alert.
“Is everything all right?” I deman
d, jumping up from the uncomfortable chair and stalking toward the white coat. “Is Lyra okay? Did something happen to her?”
He holds his hands up in surrender and shakes his head with an uneasy chuckle. “Everything is fine with Lyra, Mr. West. Actually, better than fine. She’s awake.”
I freeze and blink hard, hoping on everything that’s holy I didn’t just mishear him. My mom is by my side in a heartbeat, her arm linked with mine for support. “I’m sorry. What… what did you say?”
His face breaks out into a wide smile this time. “I said that Mrs. West is awake, but she’s still—”
Rude or not, I leave him midsentence as I take off in a sprint down the hallway to Lyra’s room. He can fill me in on the details later; there will plenty of time for that. The only thing that matters right this fucking second is that I see my wife with my own two eyes—alive, well, and with over sixty years to live.
I skid to a stop outside the door then take a couple deep breaths to gather my composure before I burst inside and scare her. She’s already going to be groggy and confused, possibly even aggressive, so I need to be her rock of cool, calm, and collected. That is, if she remembers who I am.
Mustering up every ounce of courage I have inside me, I grab the handle and carefully push the door open. One of the three nurses from earlier is still in here, but she’s furiously typing something at the workstation, and when she sees it’s me, she motions for me to approach Lyra’s bed.
“She’s trying her hardest to stay awake, but the drugs just won’t let her for long. Pull a chair up next to her, so she can see you when she opens her eyes again,” the nurse encourages.
I do as she suggests, taking my place right up against the bulky hospital bed, my gaze not leaving Lyra’s face.
“How long after the doctor came in did she come to?” I’m curious to how it all happened and a little disappointed I wasn’t in here.