Love You Hard

by Abby Maslin

  To the right of TC’s bed, his night nurse, Klu, a tiny Filipino woman with a warm smile and wire-rimmed eyeglasses, diligently reads the machines at his bedside. Each blinking number is surely an important indicator of TC’s likelihood to survive, and now that we are fourteen hours into his seventy-two-hour countdown, I’m ready to know what each one means.

  “Klu, I see that number at the top. That’s his heart rate, right?”

  She nods. After all those ER visits with my dad, this is the one reading I might be able to make sense of on my own.

  “But what’s that number below it?” I push on.

  “That’s his ICP, his intracranial pressure, dear. It’s attached to an instrument inside TC’s head, and it tells us how much swelling is in his brain.”

  “How much is normal?” I counter.

  “Anything close to zero, dear,” she says gently. “No swelling is normal.”

  Only after Klu has answered do I recognize the naivete of my question. There is so much to learn about the medicine involved here, I feel certain I’m standing completely in the dark.

  Still intimidated, I allow Klu to take me through each machine until I have a cursory understanding of all the equipment keeping TC alive.

  “Do you see a lot of patients like this? You know, with head injuries?” I finally muster.

  “I see them all the time, honey. Some even worse than your husband.”

  “Oh.” I nod, processing the novel, if not painfully obvious, idea that we are not the first people to find ourselves in these circumstances. I’d like to know more about these other people with traumatic brain injuries, but only if it will make me feel better.

  Klu senses my apprehension. “I’ve seen many, many people just like TC, dear. And they walk right out of this hospital.”

  Of course, it’s too early to know whether TC will be one of these people. Neither Dr. Kalhorn nor any of the other doctors who’ve monitored TC throughout the day have given me any sense of what the future might hold. We are all just waiting to see if he’ll survive. But Klu’s words give me some hope. I settle back, letting the wine relax my battle-worn muscles. My pounding heart finally begins to decelerate.

  In this dim room, lit only by the flashing of the monitors and the light from the nurses’ station that creeps in under the door, TC’s sleeping face looks peaceful, serene. I close my eyes to say another prayer and pause, suddenly cognizant of how many times I’ve stopped to pray today.

  Who is it I’ve been directing these fearful, muddled thoughts to? Is it God, a person? God, some religious or spiritual icon with whom I’ve formed a sudden relationship? Or is it TC himself? Am I trying to reach through the heavy air in this room, past the damaged brain in front of me, into the place where I believe the real TC can hear my silent, begging words?

  Does it even matter, so long as my words are heard?

  I will not leave you. I squeeze my eyes shut. Do not leave me. I will do anything to keep you here. Stay with me tonight. Please stay with me.

  CHAPTER 7

  I consider myself a person of faith, although I’ve hardly got strong evidence to support that claim. In recent years, my conversations with God have been mostly limited to airplane takeoffs and wishes for my father’s health. Please don’t let this plane crash. I promise not to ask for another thing ever again. And, forgetfully, a matter of weeks later, another plea: Please let my dad survive this transplant. Please don’t take him before I’m ready.

  I’m not sure whether these conversations qualify me as spiritual or just spiritually greedy.

  I’ve been praying for my dad far longer than the four years he’s been sick. As a kid, I’d lie in bed, my eyes squeezed tightly, trying to silence the fresh anxiety that accompanied the revelation that my parents would die one day. Of all the terrible things my eight-year-old imagination could conjure, this reality was the worst. And the most inescapable.

  I wasn’t surprised when, in 2008, I got the call that my father had been hospitalized with liver disease. He’d been taking poor care of himself his entire life. I was, however, hopeful. There was always something to be done about it, I crowed supportively. We’d find a great doctor. We’d monitor his diet. Hell, he could have part of my liver if they allowed it.

  But faith is hard to sustain in the face of chronic illness. A moment of supportive caregiving became a year. One year became four years. And now here we are, still on my dad’s journey as a new one unfolds side by side with the last person I ever thought I’d be a caregiver to: TC.

  How stupid those words sound as they form in my brain. I never thought I’d be TC’s caregiver? That’s precisely what I signed up for three years ago, holding his hand in front of 130 people on the bank of the St. Mary’s River.

  In sickness and in health. In failure and in triumph.

  At twenty-seven, I was simply reciting pretty words. A powerful statement to prove my affection. Now they are the backbone of each moment of this experience.

  It’s hard not to feel cheated by time. Why didn’t we get longer to enjoy a peaceful life? Why has every holiday of the past three years been spent in a hospital room or under duress as we cared for my dad? Would I have dived so deeply into helping my mother if I had known I was giving up the only time I’d have to live my life with TC?

  I don’t have answers. Only moments of discomfort that mimic remorse, overwhelming me with ambiguous sadness. And, of course, the inarguable reality that everyone I love is still alive. Despite my feelings of grief, this fact remains. We are all still alive. There may still be time.

  * * *

  In stretches of long, unquiet hours that are marked by the steady drum of footsteps, the beep of the respirator, and the swivel of Klu’s chair, TC makes it through the night.

  The clock on the wall above his door reads 10:00 A.M. In a moment, we will begin the prayer circle Claire and Bethany have helped me organize via social media.

  It is the only response I could think of to the outpouring of messages and support I’ve received in the last twenty-four hours. On the drive to the hospital, I had asked for prayers, but I never expected so many people to respond or care. As I checked my computer overnight, I became quickly overwhelmed by the hundreds of messages from people promising to pray. Friends in Australia. Strangers in Israel. A Native American tribe in Maine. I couldn’t have imagined that our network of friends would reach so far, but I am humbled, left speechless by the outpouring of love we’ve received since yesterday morning.

  “Do you think it would be OK to ask people to participate in a group prayer?” I pondered out loud, recalling the candlelight vigils and prayer circles I’ve heard about following major tragedies. “Or is that too much?”

  Claire made the decision easy. “You can do whatever you want.”

  I thought for a moment, and the answer came quickly, packaged in the form of an audaciously loud request. I want everyone I know and everyone they know to pray for the goodness that fights within these hospital walls. I want them to stop and think healing thoughts for TC. I want him to feel that energy and be rehabilitated by it. It’s a lofty ambition, but that seems only apropos in honoring the man who taught me to reach for lofty ambitions. I am fairly certain that for TC to survive this terrible thing, he needs more than just medical care and the prayers of a few loved ones. He needs a full-out miracle.

  As I take my husband’s left hand with my right, I meet the eyes of the group now circling his bedside. Our family members, TC’s closest friends, and, thanks to Facebook, pretty much everyone we’ve encountered throughout our lives are spiritually, if not physically, with us in this moment.

  The energy in the room is tangible as we take turns each offering some words. A current of electricity passes through the palms of those standing in the circle, and I’m confident TC can feel it as well. Heat emanates from his fingers, and I’m acutely aware of the gentle pulsing of his blood as
our palms press against each other.

  Claire speaks first: “Dear God, this is the moment in which we need your help. Please keep your watch over TC as he fights to stay alive. This is a man who is loved and needed by many. He has so much left to do on this planet, and we need him here with us to carry out that work.”

  I grip TC’s hand even tighter as Claire directs her words toward his sleeping face. Standing at the foot of the bed, she gazes at his closed eyelids and says gently, “TC, you are not alone. We are here with you in every possible way. We will not leave you, not today, not ever. I love you, friend.”

  The depth of her sincerity startles me. She and TC have always gotten along, but the promise she is offering in this moment feels bigger and more generous than any act I’ve witnessed from her before. And I don’t think it’s just because she loves me, her friend. It’s because she deeply, genuinely loves TC.

  I look into the eyes of each person present, and I see the layers of my husband’s life reflected in their pain. This man, who means everything to me, means the world to so many others. My suffering is not singular, and my prayers are not mine alone. We are all stunned by this event, fighting to keep faith, trying desperately to believe in the strength of the one man we cannot imagine our lives without.

  * * *

  An hour later TC is wheeled out of his room and taken to the OR for a second brain surgery. Earlier in the morning, Rocky, the young (I mean, Doogie Howser–like young) neuro resident on the floor was tasked with the unfortunate job of telling me TC has developed a secondary subdural hematoma overnight. Pointing to swirly, black CT images, he explained that TC’s brain is still bleeding. They’ll need to cut a skin flap on the right side and suction out the blood around his skull. The images he pointed to as evidence might as well have been a Rorschach test for as much as I understood them. It all looked like one swirly mass, a moving tornado inside TC’s head. Wreaking havoc and guaranteeing destruction.

  With the flick of a pen, I signed my consent. After all, what was the alternative? Although we’d discussed it in passing, TC and I never sat down to formalize our wishes in the event something like this happened. At our age, I’m not sure I know many people who have. Everything I understand about his wishes, everything I can speculate about how he’d most want me to handle this, is taken from a smattering of random conversations and my own interpretation of his spiritual beliefs. We have no legal document giving me authority. No piece of paper outlining TC’s definition of quality of life.

  If he survives this, every possible outcome is on the table, including the one that it might not be a life worth living. But at this moment, my desperation to keep TC alive is too strong to factor in the nuance of that wish. I can only think to pray for his survival. To keep him alive one hour at a time.

  Later in the afternoon, a few hours after Rocky has returned to declare “TC did well” during his second surgery, I discover that new detectives have been assigned to our case. Homicide detectives.

  Joe and Charles make their entrance into the ICU with the intimidating strut of television detectives. They look the part too. Dressed in finely pressed business suits, they handle themselves with the kind of street sense more reminiscent of mobsters than city detectives.

  I’m sitting in the waiting room with friends and family when Joe and Charles first introduce themselves. What a pair they make, I think to myself, not quite having grasped that introductory word homicide.

  I’m also a little confused. “But I met a different detective yesterday,” I explain.

  At nearly six-and-a-half-feet tall, Detective Joe stands before me with his arms crossed. “Yes, that sometimes happens on a case at the very beginning. Charles and I will be handling your case from now on, Mrs. Maslin.”

  The detective’s voice isn’t gruff, but everything about his long face, shaved head, and handlebar mustache suggests a certain level of know-how about the world’s seedy underbelly. Joe’s partner, Charles, is a smidgeon less intimidating. He’s several inches shorter than his partner, with a round, warm face that I can easily picture pushing his kids down the playground slide. That is, I guess, when he’s not out tracking down murderers.

  The detectives and I make our way into TC’s hospital room, and I watch them inventory the medical scene. It hasn’t been formally stated, but I gather after a moment that we’re in this room for one reason—so they can make a reasonable prediction about whether TC will die.

  Detective Joe steps out in the hallway to speak privately with TC’s nurse, and I wonder what questions he’ll be asking, and also, what answers his nurse might offer that she won’t give me.

  TC survived his second surgery, but if they do another CT scan tomorrow and discover his brain is still bleeding, what options will they have left? No one’s mentioned the possibility of removing him from the respirator that’s currently breathing for him. In fact, no one’s mentioned anything at all about brain damage or vegetative states. I imagine these are possibilities, and they’re questions I should probably ask. But at the moment I don’t think I’m ready for those answers.

  The detectives confirm that they’ve traced the suspicious charges on our credit card back to a gas station in our neighborhood. They’re waiting for the manager of the station to release surveillance video from the night of the attack. As for other witnesses or information, there seem to be none.

  Joe steps back into the room, and the three of us pause for a moment at TC’s bedside, standing in silence as we listen to the beeping IV. Before they leave, they turn to offer me a sympathetic glance.

  “Well, OK, Mrs. Maslin. We’ll be back tomorrow. You hang in there, OK?”

  Homicide detectives. The tiny glimmer of hope to which I’ve been hanging grows dimmer.

  * * *

  By the third night, not much has changed in TC’s condition, but I am becoming rapidly unhinged. In part, it’s the lack of sleep. TC’s parents keep watch over Jack so I can maintain my post at the hospital. Throughout the night, my husband’s bedside continues to be interrupted by a constant barrage of tests, neuro checks, and linen changes. Usually, I take these interruptions as an opportunity to step into the warm summer night air and sit in quiet by the hospital entrance. The second night I was kept company by Ilya, TC’s best friend, who drove down from Philadelphia. In the early hours of dusk, Ilya and I sat out on the hospital benches, sharing our favorite memories of TC and assuring ourselves out loud that he will make it through this, because, as Ilya so plainly put it, “TC is one strong motherfucker.”

  Twenty-four hours ago I believed him, but as Bethany and I sit in TC’s dark room, listening to the orchestra of medical equipment as it relentlessly beeps and gurgles on, I’m not so sure anymore. It’s been nearly seventy-two hours, and although TC is still alive, none of his major vitals have shifted in a way that indicates real progress. He is still deep in his coma, showing no signs of response or improved brain activity. We lie half-awake in our chairs, when the doctors kick us out of TC’s room once more.

  “Could you please give us some space for a few minutes?” requests the neuro team as they stand in TC’s doorway.

  Bethany and I mumble in groggy compliance, pick up our pillows, and head to the waiting room, where a custodian is vacuuming. With no place to go, we return to the hallway outside the ICU door.

  Outside, the D.C. sky is black, illuminated only by the soft glow of streetlamps. But inside, the hospital’s long corridors are drenched in bright, fluorescent light. Without my contact lenses, everything is blurry, and the only shape I can distinguish is that of my sister’s tired face. Exhaustion is causing alternating bouts of fogginess and extreme nausea that leave me unsteady on my feet as I pace the hallway. I’m quite literally falling apart.

  “They’ve been in there a long time,” I remark to Bethany, as I adjust my pillow on the tile floor, trying to get comfortable.

  “It hasn’t been that long, Abs. It�
��s fine.”

  I’ve lost sense of time once more. How long have we been out here? Five minutes? Twenty?

  “Yeah, I don’t know. It shouldn’t take this long.” Panic stirs from within as I begin to imagine the doctors trying to revive TC behind those double doors. Suddenly I’m sure this is more serious than a routine check. “I’m going to buzz the door.”

  I press the intercom outside the unit and wait for a nurse’s voice.

  “Yes?” a woman finally responds.

  “Hi, I’m waiting to come back in and see my husband. Are they done yet?”

  “Patient’s name?” she asks.

  “J-John Oscar Doe,” I stammer. “Or Thomas Maslin.” I’m never sure which to answer.

  When TC arrived at the hospital, they admitted him as John Oscar Doe (the original John Doe was already claimed, apparently). As it’s been explained to me, it’s customary procedure to assign a pseudonym to patients who come in without identification or who are possibly vulnerable to a retaliatory act, and so they treated TC like any victim of violence: by stripping off his clothes and his wedding ring, and setting them aside in a plastic bag marked for evidence.

  After a moment the nurse buzzes a response. “The doctors are still in there with him.”

  My panic escalates another notch, and I sit back down. “Jesus, Bethany. This is not normal. Something bad is happening. I know it.”

  She tries again to calm me, but I’m beyond reason. Certain that I’m imminently about to be sick, I get on my knees and rest my forehead on the wall. “Bethany, he is going to die. He’s going to leave us. I know it, I know it.”