“And then I told you I don’t want to talk about it?”
“I remember.” I kissed her earlobe.
“And I said that I promise I’ll tell you, because everything has to be said in its time.”
“So…?”
“So I want to tell you that the doctors apparently don’t understand what it means to be together, what it means to love.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That being with you has given me something that the most advanced medicine could never give.”
“I want to tell you that we’ve been together for four years now – twice, twice…” She lifted herself and fixed her green eyes on mine. “Twice the time they gave me.”
“I know!”
“And I feel that we still have many, many more years together.”
I smiled at her.
We fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
Around two in the morning, she stirred. I felt her movements and woke up.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” she told me.
Though barely awake, I was alert – a habit from long nights on call in the hospital.
“I’ll wait for you,” I said, noticing her difficulty in getting up. “Do you need help?” I quickly offered.
“No,” she replied. “I’m just very, very tired.”
“Take my hand,” I said, reaching out to her.
“All right,” she said, but got up on her own.
At the door, she switched on the bathroom light, a sliver of it spilling into the bedroom. Suddenly, when the soft creak of the closing door ceased, I heard a thud. It was a strange sound, one I had never heard before.
“Lily?” I called, jumping up.
No answer. I rushed to the bathroom, tried to open the door, but couldn’t. Her leg was blocking it. I realized something terrible had happened. I squeezed myself through the narrow gap between the door and the frame.
“Lily! Lily!” I called in panic. She was crouched by the toilet, her head resting on it. I lifted her quickly and pulled her out, laying her gently on the floor. I felt for her wrist. No pulse. Her neck – no pulse. Calm down, I told myself. You have to bring her back.
“Lily!” I shouted. “Lily!”
No response. No breath. I began chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth. I had plenty of experience in the ER in Eilat. There I had saved some, but lost others. The first rule came to mind: call for help. I pumped her chest five times, breathed into her twice, and repeated. In between, I dragged the phone over and dialed 101, First Aid Lifeline. They answered immediately. I heard the “hello.”
I left the receiver beside me, continued compressions and breaths. When I grabbed it, I spoke quickly.
“I need help right away! My wife lost consciousness; she’s not breathing!” I shouted. I went back to compressions.
“Where? Where? Where?” I heard faintly from the receiver.
“4009 apartment 23.” I grabbed it, spoke into it, dropped it. In my panic, I hadn’t noticed I’d given them our address in Eilat by mistake. The phone stayed on the floor. I kept working on her, to a rhythm deep inside me.
I lost all sense of time. For a moment, I left her, ran to the front door, opened it, and pounded on the neighbors’ door. I knew the banging would wake them up and they’d come. When they arrived, I was still bent over her. She didn’t respond. No pulse. No breath.
