in the tending to his needs, in the navigation of the legalities and choices necessary to shepherd him through the tragedy that had befallen him, I got to spend long hours in that hospital pretending that he was still mine. The way he was supposed to be.
I lost track, somewhere in the whirl of endless days cooped up in the waiting room or in Tim’s cubicle, back and forth between the two without end, of what I wanted. Of who I was, certainly. Of what had been happening before the accident and what was likely to happen on the other side of this, should we all make it through. It was as if, in the face of such a crisis, everything else that seemed so important when things were normal just melted away and allowed for the delicate act of crisis management to occur. Not that there was anything
delicate
about all of this sitting and waiting and
being there
in the brief stretches of visitation permitted under ICU regulations. It was a grim and exhausting act of endurance, complicated by worry and tension and, of course, Carolyn.
Who hovered. And cried.
And cried
. And who clearly felt better, now that she’d confessed her pregnancy to all of us and half the hospital. Or more secure in her position, anyway. She might not have been capable of subjecting herself to the messy medical details of Tim’s care, but shetook to her role as the soon-to-be mother of his child far too easily for my taste – a fact that alternately made me pity her and want to smack her.
‘I feel much too pregnant,’ she said one morning, shifting in her chair and holding her stomach, just to illustrate the point. ‘Just … nauseous. And
thick
.’
It was clear to me that this statement was for my benefit, even though she was pretending to address my ever-frowning father. I glared down at the novel I’d been toting around as if I planned to get some reading done while my life shattered all around me, and pretended the sentences before me made some sense. In case I missed her reference, she clutched at her still-flat belly and let out a little moan. Next to her, my father looked disapproving, but, as always, remained silent.
‘I haven’t actually thrown up,’ Carolyn confided to the stale air in the waiting room, polluted with the scent of old coffee and despair. The latter undoubtedly mine. ‘But I feel like I might. Even though I’m
starving
. All the time.’
Was she labouring under the impression that her child – the one she’d made on my bed, with my husband – was an appropriately neutral topic? Knowing my sister, she probably did. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I found myself, for the first time in my adult life, actually taking my mother’s advice. I got up, left the room without further comment, and walked.
In whatever direction I could go, as long as it was
away
from the pregnancy narrative I’d rather claw off my earsthan listen to for a second more. Away from Carolyn and her inability to just stay quiet despite the fact that her very presence felt like an affront to me. Just –
away
.
I walked with no clear intention or direction. I loitered aimlessly in the gift shop, fingering the listless, insultingly bland gifts on display. I did a few laps around the glossy main lobby. Eventually I found myself heading towards one of the many glass entrances to the hospital. I wandered outside, and found the clear, shockingly cold December day crisp and bright and exactly what I needed. It was horribly, numbingly cold. But beautiful, even so. A hard sort of beauty, icy and inhospitable. Light bounced up from the hard-packed mounds of ploughed snow in the parking lot and along the walkways and danced from the ice left behind on the bare tree branches. I walked to the edge of the shovelled walkway and stood there, just breathing out clouds into the cold, staring out over one of the parking lots and into the glittering trees of the next block.
I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was doing here.
I was clinging so hard to
I lost track, somewhere in the whirl of endless days cooped up in the waiting room or in Tim’s cubicle, back and forth between the two without end, of what I wanted. Of who I was, certainly. Of what had been happening before the accident and what was likely to happen on the other side of this, should we all make it through. It was as if, in the face of such a crisis, everything else that seemed so important when things were normal just melted away and allowed for the delicate act of crisis management to occur. Not that there was anything
delicate
about all of this sitting and waiting and
being there
in the brief stretches of visitation permitted under ICU regulations. It was a grim and exhausting act of endurance, complicated by worry and tension and, of course, Carolyn.
Who hovered. And cried.
And cried
. And who clearly felt better, now that she’d confessed her pregnancy to all of us and half the hospital. Or more secure in her position, anyway. She might not have been capable of subjecting herself to the messy medical details of Tim’s care, but shetook to her role as the soon-to-be mother of his child far too easily for my taste – a fact that alternately made me pity her and want to smack her.
‘I feel much too pregnant,’ she said one morning, shifting in her chair and holding her stomach, just to illustrate the point. ‘Just … nauseous. And
thick
.’
It was clear to me that this statement was for my benefit, even though she was pretending to address my ever-frowning father. I glared down at the novel I’d been toting around as if I planned to get some reading done while my life shattered all around me, and pretended the sentences before me made some sense. In case I missed her reference, she clutched at her still-flat belly and let out a little moan. Next to her, my father looked disapproving, but, as always, remained silent.
‘I haven’t actually thrown up,’ Carolyn confided to the stale air in the waiting room, polluted with the scent of old coffee and despair. The latter undoubtedly mine. ‘But I feel like I might. Even though I’m
starving
. All the time.’
Was she labouring under the impression that her child – the one she’d made on my bed, with my husband – was an appropriately neutral topic? Knowing my sister, she probably did. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I found myself, for the first time in my adult life, actually taking my mother’s advice. I got up, left the room without further comment, and walked.
In whatever direction I could go, as long as it was
away
from the pregnancy narrative I’d rather claw off my earsthan listen to for a second more. Away from Carolyn and her inability to just stay quiet despite the fact that her very presence felt like an affront to me. Just –
away
.
I walked with no clear intention or direction. I loitered aimlessly in the gift shop, fingering the listless, insultingly bland gifts on display. I did a few laps around the glossy main lobby. Eventually I found myself heading towards one of the many glass entrances to the hospital. I wandered outside, and found the clear, shockingly cold December day crisp and bright and exactly what I needed. It was horribly, numbingly cold. But beautiful, even so. A hard sort of beauty, icy and inhospitable. Light bounced up from the hard-packed mounds of ploughed snow in the parking lot and along the walkways and danced from the ice left behind on the bare tree branches. I walked to the edge of the shovelled walkway and stood there, just breathing out clouds into the cold, staring out over one of the parking lots and into the glittering trees of the next block.
I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was doing here.
I was clinging so hard to
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