Prologue: The Twenty-First Day
“Are you ready?” she asks.
Ready? Am I…ready? That has to be the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. I don’t actually know this woman but it doesn’t matter. I despise her.
I’ll admit, my hatred was set in stone the moment I knew what she was here to do, so she never actually had a chance. But then, she seriously had to ask me if I was ready? For God’s sake! Don’t they get training in this kind of thing?
I can’t bear it. She disgusts me. I imagine her as an adult from a Charlie Brown cartoon, trombone riffs replacing her words and protecting me from their meaning.
Strange how the brain works. I’m aware that I’m experiencing the psychosomatic symptoms of trauma and can acknowledge that my mind is shielding me from her words. You’d think that understanding how the brain works would make me stronger in this type of situation. Nope. Doctorate degree be damned. What good was all that education if I can’t even apply it to myself? Story of my life, I guess.
Am I ready? No. No, of course not. Who the hell would ever be ready for something like this? This might be just another day for her, but it’s my worst nightmare.
God, I’m exhausted. I can’t take it anymore, so I flip my switch and fade to gray.
Every one of my senses is dull to the point of obscurity. I try to respond to her question; try to turn my head; try to make eye contact. I fail. I’m a million miles away: so far removed from everything and everyone in the room that I give up completely, surrendering to the sorrow once more. I’m underwater, sinking slowly to the black depths of the San Francisco bay. And at the moment, I really don’t care that I’m drowning.
Is this really happening? It feels surreal, as if I have been living in a bad dream for twenty-one days. Maybe I have been. If this were only a nightmare, I could wake up and everything would be fine. I would tell him about the nightmare over breakfast, and we would laugh about it in relief. Eventually. It might take a while to learn to joke about it. After all, some nightmares take a few days to shake off; some take a lifetime.
I would recover in time, though, because in this new reality I would wake up, roll over, and he would be there: warm, healthy, and whole! I would hold him closer than ever and he’d smile sleepily. Then, of course, he’d fall right back to sleep (because that man can sleep), but I’d be in his arms so it would be OK. I’d let him sleep in every day for the rest of our very long lives together if only he would wake up now.
Just wake up. Please?
I’m tired. So tired. Sleep has been a disorienting thing lately. Actually, it has been a terrible tease. No matter how horrific the day was or how little I slept, the next morning began with a little reset button. A clean slate. Each day I woke cold and alone, yet with ineffectual hope that today would be the day he would recover and all would be well.
Sometimes the hope stemmed from the fogginess of sleep. In sleep, my mind could journey to the glorious fantasy world it created to escape from this torment. When I woke, I was granted a moment or two of contented bliss. Bliss! Imagine that, at a time like this! Until reality set in and I remembered. Then I would get to the hospital. “No change.” “Worse condition.” “No hope, sorry. But, you never know, so…maybe?” “No. No chance at all. Prepare yourself.” (As if there was a way to prepare for this!)
Some days were different. I would wake fully aware of my circumstances but with hope that today would present the miracle we all prayed and prayed and prayed for. It was easy to get out of bed the mornings I woke with hope. I could eat without forcing it down. Hell, I would even smile every now and again! I believed I would get to the hospital and his beautiful, knowing eyes would finally open. He would grin and complain about the hospital food. Oh, to hear him complain about something! Knowing him, he’d turn it into a quip about bureaucratic conspiracies that would have me rolling my eyes.
I didn’t wake with hope today; no reprieve from the sorrow. It was as if my subconscious grieved all night long…no chance to forget. My emotional roller coaster of recurring hope, desperation, faith, and despair has now come to a screeching halt. Today I face my new reality. Am I ready?
This morning was a devastating prelude to the worst day of my life. I opened a text message from an unfamiliar number, innocently believing it to be more words of support from one of Peter’s friends. Of course, I could not have been more wrong about this particular text.
I don’t know who sent me that hateful message but it jolted me to this state of eerie existential acceptance I’m stewing in now. It’s a little scary, if I’m being honest with myself (or, at least, it would be if I weren’t too numb to care), because in it lies emptiness. I’m in a sensory deprivation chamber and there is no door, all thanks to a single text message begging me not to murder my husband. Warning me I would regret the consequences. Who does something like that?
Anyone with the correct knowledge of his situation would never say anything so heinous! Not if they had cried and agonized and prayed alongside me, had met with the doctors, had heard the news become bleaker each day, had felt my despair in finally accepting the doctors’ advice. No. That person, whoever it was, understands nothing. Nothing.
How long have I been sitting here? I feel several sets of eyes burning into me. I can’t look at the nurse. At anyone. I know who’s here. The blurry blobs across the room are my mom and stepdad Brice. I can’t bear the sight of them so I won’t try bringing them into focus. They’re grieving because they loved him, too, so one look at them would push me over the edge.
My best friend Tess and her husband, Rick are here. I can’t see them. Wait, are they here? I saw them this morning, didn’t I? Yes. I remember, they were at my house right after I got the nasty text. Tess swore up a storm and then deleted the message so I wouldn’t be tempted to read it again. Rick stomped around the house like a raging bull. I was hugged so fiercely I thought I might burst. Maybe they didn’t come to the hospital? I can’t remember.
The blurry blob sitting next to me is the social worker. I know that much. The doctor insisted she be here. A social worker? Really? That feels odd to me. I thought social workers just did things like removing kids from abusive households and such. But I studied psychology, not social work, so what do I know about it?
I can’t even look at Peter anymore. I’ve been doing that for three weeks and it hurts too much today. Instead, I stare at our intertwined hands. That’s the only thing I can see clearly. His fingertips are black. Black! I hide them under my hand so I don’t have to look at them. There. That’s better. But his hand feels different. It’s still big and callused in the same way, but now it’s just…stiff. And it isn’t as warm as it once was. And it doesn’t embrace mine anymore.
God, I hate the smell in here! I’ve been smelling it every day for three weeks. For twenty-one days. And if I never do it again, it will be too soon. And the soap! It’s noxious and nauseating. It doesn’t resemble flowers or fruit or spice. It reeks of medicine and dying, and when I inhale it makes me want to gag and rage and cut off my hands and toss them in a meat grinder. Why didn’t I just bring my own soap from home? I would feel better if I didn’t smell like this. Or not. Who am I kidding?
The social worker touches my shoulder. Touch is good. It always pulls me from my meanderings. And given that this is the worst woolgathering episode I’ve experienced in a lifetime of introverted withdrawals, I’m grateful for it.
I slowly drag my gaze from our hands to try to focus on her. Success. I have tunnel vision and now this stranger next to me gets all my attention. All that I have to give, anyway. She has the kindest smile. My eyes cloud at the goodness and compassion radiating from hers. Empathy. I wonder if she’s lost someone, too? Yeah, she has. It’s written all over her face.
She isn’t pretty per se. Dark, messy hair. No makeup. No defining features. Yet she exudes kindness. She looks like she does this all day every day and I’m convinced she must be the strongest person in the world for it.
I wonder how anyone can do her job and remain a functioning human being? Maybe she’s a raging alcoholic outside work hour or she moonlights as a stripper or she battles to the death in an underground fighting club to manage the stress. Whatever the case, good for her! The fact that she’s sitting next to me and telling me with her eyes that I’m not alone makes her the most beautiful person in the world. If she can be strong, so can I. Right?
Am I ready? No. And I refuse to say I’m ready, because I will never be ready. Still, I manage a small whisper in the general direction of the nurse. “Go ahead.”
The nurse blob glides to the machine. The noises stop. She disappears.
“Mira, why don’t you tell me about him?” the social worker asks.
So I do. I tell her how incredible he is. I murmur stories of how we met, how we fell in love, and how brilliant and talented and loved he is. Was.
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