The elevator hisses shut behind me. Ahead of me lays the terrifying walk to those doors with the ominous sign: Restricted Area. Behind those doors lie the mostly dead, the partially alive, and their loved ones who keep silent, tearful vigil. The Intensive Care Unit.
I am one of those keeping vigil.
Each step comes in slow motion. I hate this walk and the questions it brings. Will she still be there, clinging to life, tied to so many machines and tubes? Or will I round the corner to see her door open, room empty, her body in the morgue waiting for me to dispose of it? Will she have slipped away, alone, desperate, unaccompanied into that dark mystery of death we all fear so much? What if she gave up and left while I had gone home for a troubled sleep and a change of clothes? What if, during my long drive back to the hospital, they tried to call me, to tell me to hurry, that there wasn’t anything more they could do and it was time to say goodbye, but they couldn’t reach me and she died alone? Would she know that I didn’t want it that way? That I wanted one more chance to tell her that I loved her and that my life would end when she left? That I tried the very best I could to keep her alive?
My footsteps echo in the deserted hallway. Left turn, five steps, right turn, thirty steps. Just one more left turn and I would have my answer. My head is screaming inside. I can’t breathe. No, no, turn back the clock. This can’t be real. This isn’t happening to us. Please let her be alive. Give us one more day together. Just one more day. Please?
Left turn. For today, the answer is….
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