By Susan Davis
God clears the path
traffic is non existent
Monday morning
in Southern California
Mission Hospital our destination
vomiting and the worst headache ever
two signs a brain aneurysm
was lurking somewhere near
7:15 am
our lives changed forever
ER the big blazing red sign on the left
turning our BMW and racing into the parking lot
ambulances only
I’m terrified of ambulances
shaking pulling out and parking elsewhere
Karen’s soft voice:
“go get someone, I can’t walk”
automatic doors opening for me
yelling, I need help
a male attendant guiding the wheelchair
slowly, slowly, and slowly
to our car
grabbing your hand
and placing you
in a wheelchair
pushing slowly
too slowly for my comfort
placing a pink-bucket
on your lap
for vomiting
inside the ER
leaving you by the fish tank
big, beautiful, fish swimming
independently
you needing help
the pink paper strong and firm
together on the hard backing
of a clipboard
squeezing the clipboard
with terrified fingers
Karen was all I could write
screaming from your lungs
now aspirating
my lungs bellowed
the screams heard by all
mine was the loudest
a teacher’s voice
wanting to control the room
walking slowly
the attendant returned
silence by all
pushing you slowly
through the trauma door
your drooping head
touching your left shoulder
collapsing eyes closing
medical staff
swarming the room
all hands on deck
intubating you while I sat far away
the team wheeling you past me on a gurney
a blue bag connected to your face
were you suffocating?
rushing to CT with an entourage of
nurses
I love you, Bear
no response
questions being fired at me one after the other
did she eat breakfast?
what pills were taken?
insurance?
home address?
results:
brain scan: screamed
a brain aneurysm
rupture
placing you in a six week coma
the chasm where sleeping was all you could do
pinned down by
tubes, medicines, machines
and fate
nurses at your side
two at a time
machines beeping
red lights blinking
like a construction zone
warning: danger
all while sleeping
holding onto what life
you had left
our pups need
food and water
it is now 8:00 pm
I need to
return calls,
write emails,
prepare lessons
a teacher by day
one hundred and sixty eighth graders
all needing me too
another red light shines
another alarm buzzes,
but this time- for me
home
6:30 am
kibbles for the pups
shower, dress, another day
a cookie for each dog
drive to school to teach
back at your bedside
the Beijing Olympics
blare on most televisions
my sweet Bear
deep in the depths of medications
tubes, bed bumpers, IV’s
everything restraining you
from even moving a hair
7:00 am open my classroom door
students in and out
long before school began
Room 14 a place for all
a safe zone
essays taught
literature too
young voices
needing me
claiming me
as their own
but I needing them too
Olympics were boring
without you
silence where conversation once was
our pups and me on our sofa
no conversation
just my own
you lay supine in
the burgundy bed
in “grave condition”
time was of the essence
minutes, hours, days
monitors all around you
to give the doctors and nurses
results
hang on, Bear
I’m right here
in room 14 at my desk
my phone rings
the hospital
needs permission
to “aspirate your lungs”
yes, I reply
I’ll sign the papers
when school is out
I bolt to the hospital
where you are
to see you
to hear you-
to touch you
but only the machines give voice
buzz, beep, beep, beep
the sounds reverberate off the walls
the aspiration a success
touching your arm soft and warm
do you feel me?
I talk to you
I sing to you
do you hear me?
when will you wake up?
life is lonely without you
back home
do the dogs know?
feeding them three at a time
answering emails
phone calls one by one
grading essays one hundred at a time
I drive from school
Room 14 to the hospital – Room 12
two numbers apart
but miles away
no dishes to wash
no food to eat at home
breakfast-lunch-dinner
all on the road
at your bedside
watching you eat
liquid drips from the tan bottle
on a tall metal pole that secures your meals
hoisted high above your head
it flows through a tube into your nose
eventually into your tummy
what flavor is it?
is there even a taste?
chocolate? maple maybe?
it’s tan in color
how many calories?
my blueberry tea latte and blueberry scone
let’s have breakfast-you and me
silence so profound that it breaks
devouring my scone
tasting every savory bite of dough and blueberries
wondering if your liquid nutrients taste
as good as my blueberry scone
sushi- four times a week
our favorite dinner together
one order of yellowtail
salmon and a California roll
ponzu sauce on the side
liquid dinners-one drip at a time
I’m on my own
sushi for one, please
Michael Phelps won eight gold medals
Misty May-Treanor Kerri Walsh Jennings
didn’t lose a single set
you were supposed to watch
with me-
when will the coma release you from its hold?
daily I come to see you
to hear you
to touch you
but you are speechless
silence speaks volumes again
Bob Costas commentating on primetime
Jim Lampley on daytime
Mary Carrillo late night
I want to hear your voice!
I was a teacher by day
a wife
a lonely companion
by night.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Susan M. Davis is a retired English teacher of 28.5 years. She is a constant mentor for her former students. She is married to her wife of twenty years. Her wife suffered a brain aneurysm rupture on 7/28/2008. Susan continued to teach 160 eighth graders a day then she went home to caretake for her wife. In between those full time duties, Susan earned three MFA degrees at Fairfield University. Susan and Karen live in Irvine California with their three pups.