“What’s your name?” the nurse asks. I tell them, and after a few seconds of looking at a computer screen, I get a pitying look. “I don’t see you listed as her contact. Are you family?”
“No!” I answer more forcefully than necessary. “She doesn’thaveany family! I’m the person she lives with, doesn’t that count for anything? Does being in love with someone mean nothing?” I’m practically shouting, and then there’s a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Come on.” My dad’s gentle voice settles my emotions enough for me to stop my tirade. “I’m sorry. We know there’s nothing you can do,” he says as he guides me back to where my family has been sitting with me.
When I sit, I drop my head into my hands. “She’s all alone. She’s been all alone and I should have been there. I should be there now.”
Several hands hold, pat, and embrace as I stay in my crouched position, beating myself up for how badly I messed up today.
I don’t know how much time has passed when a deep voice asks, “Is one of you Arthur?” I look up for the first time, and stand, nodding. “Alice is asking for you. She’s asleep now, but she’s asked for you several times. If you’d like, I can take you to her.”
No sound comes out of my mouth, but the desperation must be evident on my face as the man nods at me and leads me through a set of double doors.
As we walk through the maze of bright white hallways with multicolored arrows on the floor, he explains she’s had several tests done. They’ve confirmed a moderate concussion, two bruised ribs, and that the impact of the accidenthas caused some neck trauma, which has set off her cervicogenic headaches. Basically, she’s in a ton of pain.
When I step into the room, I find it difficult to take a full breath, seeing her sitting slightly up, pillows propping her arms and a brace round her neck. She looks small and fragile, her eyes closed, and her expression free of any sign of distress. A machine beeps somewhere, and my eyes snag on the IV drip responsible for her peaceful features. My breath catches, and the door opens behind me as a doctor enters the room.
“Hi there. I’m Dr. Marishka. Are you Arthur?” The short, dark-haired woman next to me doesn’t smile, doesn’t try to placate me with niceties.
“I am, yes. Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, so distracted I don’t even register what she looks like.
She smiles kindly, and I attempt the same, but I’m not sure my face is capable of it right now. I look at Alice, unable to focus on much else now that I’m here.
“Alice is doing all right,” she starts, walking closer to the bed and setting her tablet on a table. “We’re going to keep her on morphine for a little bit until the pain lessens. We’ll switch her to hydrocodone or oxycodone once she’s able to take them orally.” I flinch at her words, my muscles instantly tensing as the doctor continues talking, unaware. “She also needs the rest due to the concussion, so you might not see her awake for more than a couple of hours a day, and only a few minutes at a time for the next couple of days. Since she asked for you directly, you’re welcome to stay here during visiting hours.” She points to the chair that looks about as comfortable as a boulder.
“Thank you. Is there anything else I should know? Anything I can do?” Alice’s face and arms are bruised, and her hair is matted. I want her to be as comfortable as possible now, but also when she wakes up.
“If there’s anything from home you know would bring her comfort, you can check with the nurses to see if you are allowed to bring it into the room. But for now, there’s nothing else. We’re going to keep a close eye on her for a little while, and we’ll keep you updated.” She looks at the IV, then at some of the machines next to the bed, taking a few notes, then nods and leaves the room.
I’m completely helpless. I stand there, staring at her, watching as she breathes, looking at the slow drip in her IV bag and the numbers and lines that make no sense to me on the small screens.
There’s a bathroom in the room, which is a semi-private space, but given the size of this hospital, I’m not surprised she has it to herself. Rather than going in, I walk out into the hallway and ask a nurse to direct me to a restroom nearby. I check for anyone else inside, then I call Beau. He picks up on the second ring.
“Everything okay?” His voice is full of concern—probably for both me and Alice.
“Yeah. No. They let me in to see Alice since she asked for me when she was awake, but she’s on morphine. They’re talking about giving her oxy once she’s awake. I want to be here for her, Beau, but can I? Should I?” I honestly don’t know. I never imagined myself in this situation, where I would be ready to put someone else’s needs ahead of my own so easily. Yet I’m unsure whether that’s the right thing to do because of my addiction.
“You should absolutely be there for her, but Arthur, that doesn’t mean you need to be in the room.” He pauses, likely thinking over his next words. “I know you want to be there with her, but you can step away if you need to, if you feel yourself going to a place that’s not healthy for you, because that’s still taking care of her and doing what’s best. Taking care of you is also taking care of her right now. Youcan also talk to the nurses. Tell them you want to know when they’re administering any medication, and you’d rather not be there for that. Start there, and call me whenever you need to.” That’s all he needs to say, really, because he understands.
“Okay. Thank you. I should go update my family, but thank you, Beau.” We say a quick goodbye and I hang up, feeling better that someone knows what I’m up against here.
Once I update Gabriel and Raf, asking them to go home, I sit in the chair the doctor pointed to and wait.
Hope.Pray?
I don’t even know.
I sit there, watching Alice, letting all the thoughts of the day run through my mind. I pull the chair closer to her bed and lean back. At some point, I fall asleep, because the next thing I know, a nurse is tapping me on the shoulder, telling me visiting hours are over.
She wokeup last night asking for me.
I wasn’t there for her.
Again.
The nurse this morning told me she was agitated, mumbling, and trying to move, but with her brace and her rib injuries, they worried she’d hurt herself more, so she had to be sedated again.
Now I’m here, somewhere between hopeless and guilt-ridden. The only time I leave the room is every four hours when they need to push more morphine into her line, or when they’re talking about it. It’s hard to come to termswith the fact that the thing that nearly killed me is what’s keeping her comfortable. It’s harder knowing she still has no idea.
