The Snow

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They say waking from a coma is like climbing out of quicksand. Like there's this suffocating weight along your body that you fight against, try to break free from. Your bones feel heavy, muscles numb due to the drugs and atrophy. You desperately struggle to speak or move, but your brain is so foggy, you can't even tell you're sinking. Everything comes back slowly and with great effort, fighting back against that gravitational pull of the sand, of sleep.

I suppose that's how my dad felt, staring up at me blankly while I cried and called for help. His eyes were empty, devoid of depth or understanding, and it frightened me. He laid there, mute and immobile, as the nurse rushed in and almost screamed, paging nearly every neurologist on call.

I've watched for nearly six hours now as they've poked and prodded, scanned, and drawn blood from my father. Only catching glimpses of him through the door or in between staff. Eyes still blank, but slowly fighting off that vacuous sand pulling him down. Unable to speak or move, he can only sit as they run test after test on him, trying to figure out how he awoke and what this means for him... for us.

Still in my nightgown, no sleep, I've been alternating between pacing the linoleum and trying not to fall asleep as I wait on the bench outside his room.

Dazed and fatigued, I feel as if I'm in a dreamlike state. I've had many dreams over the last nine years that featured my father finally wakening from his coma and I have to keep pinching myself to make sure I'm not asleep, make sure this is actually reality.

Have to keep peeking through the window in his door to make sure he didn't just fall right back asleep.

Since the first outburst of tears and screams and hugging him to myself frantically, I haven't cried. I've been in a state of dissociation since the awakening, eyes glazed and face pinched in constant confusion. I feel as if I should be crying, celebrating.

But, I almost feel numb.

Because the universe doesn't just give things to me.

She takes and takes, but I've never been given such a gift before. It seems too good to be true, like I'm waiting for the other heavy, crushing shoe to drop and squash this gift like a bug.

"You're going to burn a hole in the floor, ma chérie."

Nan watches my pacing, just as stupefied as I am, concern washing over her features. She suddenly showed up to the hospital two hours after my dad woke up. I didn't get the chance to call her, but she told me she woke up in a cold sweat, her soul guiding her towards the hospital.

One of Nan's many gifts.

I halt, only realizing now how badly my feet hurt, how much I'd been biting my nails, "Sorry," I mumble and take a seat next to her, sitting on my hands to keep them from shaking. Nan leans back against the wall, the bags under her eyes deep and dark. She rubs at her temples gently, face pinched and pained. "You don't have to stay, Nan. I think they'll be running tests for a while. I can call you when we have news."

Nan hates hospitals. She only visits my father once a month and only for a half hour, at most. Ghosts tend to gather at hospitals, and their voices are much too loud for her.

She sighs, glancing at me with soft eyes and a small smile, "if anyone should go home, it's you... but, I know you won't. So, I'll stay with you."

And, of everything that's happened in the past 24 hours, it's these words that nearly bring me to tears. Eyes stinging and chest caving in, I pull her into a swift hug, her frame warm and frail and so comforting. She rubs my back, humming into my ear, and I bask in the tranquility of her aura.

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