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Early on in the week I decided that the whoosh-whine of the respirator was the most horrifying sound I had ever heard. It was the steady meter amid the dissonance of various beeps, trills, and jarring alarms of the other machines. I hear that little tune sometimes at night, when it is very late, and I cannot sleep. It was supposed to be a life sustaining song, in the beginning, when we could still hope.
I had never watched someone die, and early in the week I didn't know that death's progression was what played out so delicately before me. We were all thinking positive thoughts in those hours, looking forward to the results of the healing that was surely taking place. Our hopeful eyes couldn't see the tiny laceration that hid itself under skin and muscle. Our wishful thinking didn't take into account the swift pace in which the end can find you.
Minutes, and hours, and days, an eternity as nurses and doctors and the steady whoosh-whine of the respirator played on. A coma induced to promote healing while the doctors looked for an answer. For minutes, and hours, and days, an eternity I watched his chest rise and fall, a picture he kept of me, teeny tiny, laying on that chest, my eyes locked with his, danced through my mind in time with the chorus of machines.
I was dreaming, I knew, dreaming to the whoosh-whine ballad of this lonely room. The whoosh-whine-beep-trill finally so blessedly distant, only playing around the edges of my senses. He stood there, his eyes locked with mine. "I hate this" he whispered. I could only nod. My dream eyes filling with tears as he grinned his grin, his dream eyes crinkling around the edges as his image faded and the mechanical melody resumed.
Internal bleeding for minutes, hours, days, an eternity. Nearly impossible to repair. The likelihood of him coming off the respirator practically zero. Do we turn off the machines? His brothers said no, his wife said yes, their eyes turned to me. My choice.
The same man kept the respirator on track all week. He had been my sole source of normalcy in this surreal place. His wit and sarcasm more comforting than the soft tiptoe phrases the other staff used. Like he knew me, as if he knew the girl the man on the bed had raised would crave a smile and a joke. He also knew that girl needed to stay, to watch, to see it through. The room was cleared, he explained his task, and it was done. A small part of me mourned the loss of the whoosh-whine that had been a cue to keep hoping.
I sat by his side as my mind turned to the image of our eyes locked in that photograph, mimicking the way our eyes had locked over the years. Always sharing a silent joke or a tender message. I sat by his side for minutes that became hours that became an eternity of wondering if that breath he just took, yes that one, was going to be the last. Sat by his side steady and sure, knowing I had made the right choice.
534 words
rating: 10
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