Nothing ever fucking changes. I'm alone in his room, the beeping and gentle hum of the machines surrounding me. Everyone finally left. I've kept the kids away, but I know it's only a matter of time before I have to tell them. It's been three days now. I've barely moved. Karen keeps checking on me, but I don't even know what I'd do if I left. Probably just call every 5 minutes and make sure nothing had changed.
I need a shower. I need to eat. I need to make some phone calls and let people know I'm not dead; that he's not dead. I've been ignoring my phone since I got home. Fortunately, no one expects me to answer it. I briefly hope that they're not too worried, but I'm not concerned enough to actually do anything about it right now.
Karen brought me a journal and cashmere blanket, knowing that forcing me to leave was useless. Writing has been too scary. My emotions are totally out of control. It's almost 10pm now, and the night shift is starting to come in. The lights are dim as they try to put patients to sleep for the night. The visitors have left. I turn back to the TV.
Finally, I can't come up with anything else to do. I pull my journal out of my bag, flipping through to the first empty page, staring blankly as I start to gather my thoughts. I twirl the pen between my fingers, biting at my lip anxiously. I finally give in and start scribbling furiously.
How am I the one in this position? I was the fragile one. I was the addict. He takes such good care of himself. It doesn't make sense that he's the one laying in that bed. I gave up believing life was fair a long time ago, but he shouldn't be the one dying.
What if he actually dies? What would I even do? I'm not ready for that. He can't leave me yet. We're just not done. I keep thinking of things I need to tell him, things that we never got a chance to do together.
He looks so old right now. He's so thin and so pale... he LOOKS sick. It's terrifying to think that the only thing keeping him alive right now are these wires and tubes and transfusions and medications. I make myself remember him the way I know him. God, I'd give anything to see those eyes again. I shaved him today and fixed his curls. It seems silly, but for some reason I feel better if he looks like my Lindsey.
What happens if he never wakes up? We're both almost 70 years old. I've cried so much this week over the time that we wasted. And then I feel silly. Why would I cry over things like that now? There are very few things that I would redo. Letting Lindsey marry someone that wasn't me, giving up my chance at children... those are the things I don't know how to live with yet.
I keep pretending he can hear me. I sing him some of his favorite songs. I've started making up new songs. I don't know if he can hear me. I pretend that he can.
It seems so strange to think I've fallen in love again, but there's no question that I have.
I set the book back down on the table beside me. "God damn it, Lindsey." I grab his hand for the thousandth time, hoping that maybe this time he'll grab mine, too. His fingers are still limp and cold. A few more of my tears spill onto the light blue gown, leaving dark stains on his shoulder. I can't do this anymore. I grab my phone from the table and call Karen. "Can you come get me?"
