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"I'm okay." Those were the first words I heard. But even before I heard my husband's voice, I heard semi-trucks and cars passing by in the background, I heard wind. I heard the voice of a man I knew to be my husband but who I also knew was quite the opposite of okay.
I said I'd meet him at the hospital. I said I loved him. I said all of the things a wife says to her husband when they've been hurt. I tried to be very calm. I felt my chest heave up and down. I bit my lip to keep from crying. I was slow and careful. I wanted him to not worry about me driving.
Then I remember very little about getting in the car and leaving. I remember this: Emergency lights and an approaching slow down of traffic. It was already dark outside. The lights were incredibly bright. Glaring. I began to shake. I knew instinctively this was where my husband was standing. This was my husband's accident. He's standing somewhere in the middle of all this. . . waiting for an ambulance, already in the ambulance?, being given directions, being given tests, answering questions. Everything began to move in slow motion.
We look, but we don't want to look. I always make the sign of the cross when I see something like this, an accident. No longer aware of whether or not it is as meaningful given I've been removed from my Catholic Church for quite some time. It's a reflex built into me.
I spotted his car. Or what was left of his car. And that's when I screamed. And for a brief moment, I wanted to pull off the highway right at that moment, run across traffic, tell the emergency crew to let me through, I'll take my husband please. . . thank you very much. I had a clear line of sight of the car, of the damage, of everything going on around him. But no sign of him. As if the powers that be allowed this parting of traffic for this tiny glimpse, so I'd see first hand, so I'd be able to take all of this in.
He walked away.
Alive.
Look at the car.
He called me.
Did he call me?
Yes he called me or I wouldn't be in this car driving. . .
Oh my god, that's his car.
I entered a chaotic ER scene. I didn't help matters by then losing it myself. My voice cracked. I was trying very hard to remain calm. But the sight of the accident, the flashing lights. I approached the first person with a badge. It was then that I "lost" it. Completely. It was then that I was escorted to the "Quiet Room" and handed a box of tissue. I was alone. Everything went silent. But then I heard approaching ambulance sirens. I wanted to get up and run outside. I waited.
I looked around this little space I was sitting in. Alone. This "Quite Room" and me. There were dark spots on the carpet. Areas I imagined others had sat. Waiting. Boxes of tissue covering every table. Then one single magazine. An Entertainment Weekly. And on the cover: Dr. Who.
Dr. Thyme who loves Dr. Who.
Of all the weeklies, of all the periodicals, of all the front page covers that could have been left behind in this one little space in the middle of this huge, crazy-busy hospital ER, I am left alone in a room with Dr. Who.
Mrs. _____.
Yes?
Your husband has just arrived. . . follow me.
Then the stretcher.
Finally his face. Looking up at me.
He's wearing this suffocating head gear and is strapped onto a gurney. No blood. No scratches. But pain. I could see the pain in his face. Or shock. Or both. Then both of us staring into each other's eyes. I'm here. I cried. We both held hands. He's here. I'm here.
Six-to-seven p.m. and eight-to-nine a.m. are the most intense hours of my day. Always.
He came home yesterday afternoon. He's sleeping right now. I'm being as quiet as a mouse.
My concentration is a bit spent. But I know the power of writing. I know I need this space to help me navigate through the onslaught of emotions coursing through my body.
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