Moments and breaths measured, rushing us toward the end and reminding me that there isn’t a promise of tomorrow. We assume so much—take so much for granted. If I could break out from beneath the heavy weight of the shock, I’d launch myself into Gavin’s arms. I’d announce to my brother and anyone who would listen that I love him today, I loved him yesterday, and I will love him until machines count out my last heartbeats. But right now, with Papa looking frail and ten years older than I remember beneath a thin white sheet, it all feels selfish and indulgent. Loving, having love, being loved. Like any energy I spend on something as mundane as showering or eating is wasted when I could be focusing it on willing him to be okay.
So we sit, Dallas, Gavin, and I, in a lopsided triangle around Papa’s hospital bed with the beeping and CNN playing with black-and-white captions at the bottom of the flat-screen television in the corner of the ceiling because no one has bothered to change it or turn up the volume. There are only supposed to be two visitors at a time, but somehow Gavin works his charm and is allowed to stay, for which I am grateful. Nurses come in and nurses go out, asking us our names, introducing themselves, and taking Papa’s never-changing vitals.
Lunchtime comes and goes and no one comes to explain what’s going on. Dallas calls Mrs. Lawson and she cries and carries on about her cats and how they predicted a tragedy was coming.
“She found him near the mailbox, said he was on his back and gurgling fluids but nonresponsive. She called 911 and they tried to instruct her on how to perform CPR but she couldn’t clear the foam from his mouth.”
Dallas is relaying their conversation and I’m nodding because it’s all I can manage. He might as well be punching me in the stomach. It wouldn’t feel much different.
“It took the ambulance about twenty minutes to get there and the paramedics were still working on him when they pulled away. Mrs. Lawson said to keep her posted.”
More nodding.
I’m fighting off unconsciousness when a tired-looking blond man in a white coat steps into the already overcrowded room. Dallas has nodded off with his head on his fist and Gavin is slumped in his chair.
“Miss Lark?”
I stand, snapping to attention like a soldier caught napping on post. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you his daughter?”
“Granddaughter. He raised my brother and me after our parents died in a car accident.” I gesture to Dallas. I have no idea why I just blurted all of that out, but I’m functioning on autopilot, recalling information and reciting it on command.
He shakes my hand firmly and I notice his eyes are shot through with red and lined with heavy rings even though he’s probably only thirty or so “Dr. Paulsen. I wasn’t here when your grandfather was brought in—Dr. Rasheed was—but I oversaw all of his tests.”
“Tests?”
“Scans mostly. Your grandfather suffered a heart attack. We found a ninety percent blockage, and after several scans it appears that he currently has little to no brain activity. A neurologist will be in tomorrow to speak with you about the specifics of his results.”
That’s supposed to mean something—something permanent, but my sleep-deprived mind can’t determine what that is right away. I’m waiting to hear the part where he tells me the solution, the procedure or surgery or whatever that’s going to fix it, fix him.
Dr. Paulsen gives me a sympathetic smile that I’m too tired to return. A lump forms in my throat and drives tears to my eyes.
“So it’s bad?” My voice barely makes it out.
“It was a severe heart attack, and frankly, there’s no way to know for sure how long he went without oxygen.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning even if he wakes up, he will most likely remain brain dead.”
My mind immediately rejects this. I look over at my granddad and decide that he’s just tired, just sleeping extremely heavily. This man is wrong, and anyway, he never said that he was sorry and isn’t that what people say if something is really this bad?
Papa’s chest heaves up and down and I ignore the knowledge that the machine over his nose and mouth is forcing this to happen. He’s breathing. He’s alive. He’s not brain dead. The last conversation we had on the phone is not the last one we will ever have.