Post 37: Day 59, John: It’s “During” They Never Tell You About

I like the ICU at 3 a.m.

It’s quiet. All except for the machinery that keeps Drew and all his neighbors alive.

“Drew, you scared the shit out of us last night. I mean, what was that all about? I know, I know, you didn’t do it on purpose, but Jesus! They made me leave but I saw you through the glass, lurching and then lifeless. They shocked you three goddam times. They told me later that three’s usually it. Nobody gets a fourth. You were fucking lucky.”

I’m sitting holding his hand. I’m talking out loud, but I’m told people on this floor talk out loud a lot, especially to people who may or may not be able to hear them. Wendy assures me it’s fine, but they have another floor for people who talk to people who aren’t there: Psychiatry, on 14.

“You know, just when we think you’re checking out on us, your EEG goes wild with activity. A positive sign, says Dr. C. Before your big show yesterday I met him on rounds and asked when we might be expecting some movement. You know, a hand grasp, an eye opening, maybe even a word or two. He told me to be patient. I wanted to say, ‘Excuse me, but you have no idea how patient I’ve been. Before all this I was the poster child for impatience. For not tolerating delays, lack of answers, no-shows. So, Dr. C. back the fuck off.’ That’s what I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t. Because I’m patient now.”

No? Nothing? I look at Drew and think how this conversation would have confounded him before. Before.

“You know, Drew, the accident subdivided our world into before and after. It’s funny. They prepare you for the after. There are all kinds of rituals and support systems. It’s the “during” that no one tells you about. How to deal with 59 days of no change. Or how to watch the person you love most on the planet depend on a machine to make it through another day. I never in my life thought I would have to worry about a power failure in a hospital. But I did, and I do. I made the hospital administrator arrange for me to actually check out their generator room. I think they’re beginning to doubt my sanity. But Wendy says it’s happened before.

            “You need to know something else, in case you can hear all my whining and my anger and my tears: I’m not mad at you. Really. I’m afraid. I’m scared that this is it, that through some not-at-all-funny cosmic joke, the universe is going to take you away from me.”

            The weekend night nurse is here. He’s used to seeing me here. He has the decency to pass by if Drew and I are having a conversation, or if I’m having a sob-fest.  I’ve gotten to know him. He’s fresh out of UVa’s nursing program. I joke with him sometimes, telling him how he looks like he can’t be more than 12 years old. He jokes back, assuring me he knows what he’s doing.

            Once he’s gone, I tell Drew what I’ve been holding back for almost a week, not knowing if I should even say anything. But Drew had been so adamant about his wishes. “Drew, you should know Dr. C says that after 50 days, he’s required to reassess comatose patients and discuss their progress. We’re already past that.”

I pause. I’m still talking to Drew like he’s going to answer. I make space. He’s quiet.

“They even have a name for it: The Mortality Committee. I know, could it get any more morbid? But that’s what they do.”

            I reach over. Drew’s sheet has slipped off his shoulder and he must be cold. I pull it up around his neck and tuck in the sides to hold it in place. Drew has to be cold with his shoulder exposed like that, right?