How could I?
Every time he came in the evenings he barely talked to me. He’s been so overworked, and I have no idea what the hell is going on, but it’s bothering me that I can’t even wake him up.
“Lincoln,” I call again, louder. “Lincoln.” My voice rising higher every time. “Lincoln!” I scream, slapping his face now. He won’t wake up.
This isn’t normal.
I grab my phone immediately and dial 911, my hands shaking so hard I almost drop it. The operator answers, and I cry as soon as I hear their voice.
“Yeah, my husband, I mean my—” I don’t even try to correct myself. “My husband is unresponsive. He came in and collapsed on his bed. He’s in his winter coat and he’s r-really hot, like very hot to the touch. I think he has a very bad fever and he… he won’t wake up no matter what I do. I’m slapping him and he’s not waking up.”
The operator tries to calm me down and walks me through what to do.
“Ma’am, I need you to take a deep breath for me,” the operator says. “Is he breathing?”
“Yes—yes, but it’s really shallow,” I say, scrambling to get some ice from his fridge and dumping the tray into a bucket.
“Okay, you’re doing great,” the operator says. “I need you to cool him down. Use a towel, ice, whatever you have. Lower his body temperature.”
“Yeah, I’m about to dump some ice in a towel and uh p-put it over him, or some ice on him or something,” I say with a trembling voice, rushing back to him as she talks me through it.
“Keep calling his name,” the operator tells me. “Try to keep him responsive. Let me know if anything changes.”
I keep trying to wake him up like the operator told me to. He moans, but he doesn’t wake up.
“Lincoln, baby, wake up. Link,” I say over and over again. He still doesn’t respond.
I try to drag him over onto his back, struggling because he’s dead weight in his exhaustion. I place the ice all over his neck and chest and also around his head. It doesn’t matter if the pillows and bed get wet. I would rather him be mad at me later for something so trivial and save his life.
I’ve been down this road with him before.
And it reminds me of my mother again. Lincoln will work himself dead if no one intervenes. He’s bad at that, always pushing himself and pushing himself and pushing and pushing until he can’t anymore. Just like my mom.
I always thought I should have fought harder to protect her. But I was just a girl.
But I can save Lincoln.
I have to.
Lincoln has worked himself so hard so he could provide for us, even though he hurt me. The whole reason he eventookthe Helion job, with the kind of hours that they worked him, was because he had a dream for our future. And everything he said he was going to do, except for staying faithful, he did.
Paying off my father’s debt wasn’t easy.
Paying my debt wasn’t easy.
And then he paid off his own debt too, which he did last.
Taking overtime after overtime with no breaks. Even when he was sick he would still go to work and still somehow try to find time for me.
Until his body started shutting down.
Until his body started running on autopilot.
And all he could do to combat this was to drink coffee or take caffeine pills, which are bad for his heart.
Half the time Lincoln would come home, he would just be catatonic standing outside of our house, staring at the door. And I would open the door and talk to him. It’s like he would see right through me, he was so tired.
“Baby? Babe,” I would call him again, before his eyes finally looked and focused on me. Those days I would have to take his hand and lead him inside the house. It’s like he was so tired he couldn’t even turn the doorknob to come inside.
