Out of the Woods

Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty-three

Caleb’s lying in a hospital bed in the center of a large, bright room with light blue walls, a square window overlooking the roof of the lower portion of the hospital, and gray-tiled flooring. The bed has crisply folded white sheets and there is a thin blue blanket draped across his lower half.

What I notice first is the IV in his arm and the tubes taped to his forearm and hand. His hand, with the Bunsen burner scar. Then, I notice the sleeve above the IV. He’s been changed into a gray-and-white-patterned hospital gown. Which means someone, probably a nearby nurse or two, cut off my husband’s clothes and changed him while he remained entirely unconscious. That thought alone makes me queasy, and the sensation only grows as I scan the monitors and screens surrounding him.

A machine in here distinctly sounds like Darth Vader’s breathing, which I think Caleb would point out if he could. But he can’t.

Try as I might, I cannot bring myself to look at his face.

“I know it is a lot to take in, but all of this is just keeping him comfortable.” Dr. Wenarchuk comes into the room and slides the door closed behind her. “We’ll get you both visitor passes, then you can come and go freely. The kitchen and family lounge is to the left of the elevators we passed through. We just ask that you don’t bring any food back with you.”

Bo clears his throat twice. “Can, uh, can he hear us?” The discomfort in his voice is obvious, and I shut my eyes tight as I feel more tears forcing their way out.

“Many patients who come off sedation say they could hear their loved ones or the staff, so, there’s a chance. I like to think of it as a deep sleep. Like when you can hear a song in your dream that turns out to be your alarm.”

“And he’s comfortable?” Bo asks.

“Absolutely. He isn’t in any pain or discomfort.”

I turn toward Bo and open my eyes on a long deep breath. “Good,” Bo says, a somber, crooked smile greeting me. “That’s good.”

“I’ll give you both a moment and then I’ll let Caleb’s nursing team know you’re here. They’ll want to stop in and say hello. They might even have some updates for you,” she says sweetly. “Things can change quickly around here.”

I remember, I think. “Thank you,” I say as she pumps the hand sanitizer device on the wall and swiftly exits.

“Do you want to sit?” Bo asks. I nod vigorously, then drop his hand.

“Sorry,” I apologize when I notice the red marks left by my grip on his skin.

He pulls over a chair and places it beside the middle portion of the bed. “Don’t be.” He gestures for me to sit. “Win nearly broke my wrist when she was in labor. I’m tougher than I look.”

Bo has angled the chair toward Caleb. Toward his face. My breaths start coming in short and shallow as I shake my head repeatedly.

“Hey…” he says, moving toward me. “Try to take a breath, if you can.”

“I haven’t looked yet.” The words fall out of me. “I can’t. I can’t—”

“Okay, that’s okay.” With one grip he turns the chair to face him. “Sit.” I do. Then, Bo moves across the room to get the other armchair, and moves it over, placing it directly across from me. Then he sits, our knees almost touching.

I work to slow my breaths with both of my hands placed on my chest.

“There you go,” he says softly. “No rush.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he repeats.

“I’m sorry you got stuck being here too.”

“How about this…I accept a blanket apology for any and all things that you might say or do so long as you stop apologizing.”

I laugh softly. “Okay.”

“Caleb is my best friend,” Bo says, his eyes drifting over my shoulder to the bed behind me. “I want to be here.”

“Okay,” I say alongside a sigh, lowering my hands to my lap.

“And you are one of my best friends too,” Bo says, placing his hand on my knee. “I want to be here for you.”

“I’m not good in hospitals.” The words come out light, but I communicate the heaviness with my eyes.

“I know, me either,” he says as his face falls, a sorrowful memory seeming to wrap around him for a split moment. “I never wanted to be back in a room like this.” He twists his foot, looking down at his prosthesis that begins just below his knee.

“Same here,” I say, placing my hand on his. “I’m sor—” He raises a brow as I lean back in my chair, putting distance between us. “Sooor glad you’re here,” I say, recovering in a near-Australian accent.

“Nice save.” He swallows heavily. “How, um, how were things going? Before the accident? Win had told me that—”

“Really good,” I cut him off. “If you tell Win I said this, I will break one of your action figures, but she was totally right…This week has been life-changing.”

“I do not have action figures.”

“Sorry, your dolls.”

“Collectibles,” he corrects, smiling softly.

“I think I’m ready now,” I say. “But could you maybe wait outside?”

Bo’s standing before he even answers. “Of course. Just text me when you want me to come back, okay? I’ll go grab us some coffee.”

“Thank you,” I say after him as he walks toward the door.

My heart beats so hard and fast in my chest it feels as if it’s swelling, but I gather my strength and turn around to face the bed, keeping my eyes low. I reach for his hand, rubbing my thumb against his. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn my face to see his.

If my heart splintered while we were downstairs, it has now officially shattered.

The face that I had found more familiar than my own suddenly doesn’t feel familiar at all. The face I’ve marveled at for seventeen years. The face I’ve memorized, now barely visible under an oxygen mask, tubing, and bandages.

And I swear, I’ll never take that familiarity for granted ever again. Because, suddenly, I remember not easily recognizing someone you love is far, far worse.

I lean onto the side of the bed’s railing and place both of my hands onto my husband’s chest, feeling the warmth of his body seep into my palms, and the rise and fall of his breathing. The beating of his heart, still steady. And a little voice in my head tells me what to do next.

I close my eyes and attempt to pray. After all, desperate prayer is the only kind I’ve ever known and this, by far, is the most desperate I’ve ever felt.

Even still, the words don’t come. I cannot seem to find the right phrases to beg, again, for the healing of someone I love. I try, and try, and try, and try. But I’m distracted by an undercurrent, an emotion growing fuller in my chest. Under my desperation, I locate a dense layer of anger. A bottomless well of helplessness and resentment and bitterness that grows with every moment I fail to do what my mother taught me.

Then, it dawns on me. The reason behind the anger. The realization that all of the hardships my mother experienced could have been prevented by the god that she prayed to, and that they chose to do nothing.

Not a single fucking thing…

So, I let them have my anger instead. I pour out hundreds of complaints that I’ve stowed away trying to protect the peace of a god I don’t think I ever believed in.

I think of Libby, and her mother. I think of me, and mine. I think of every loved one separated too early. Too suddenly. Too brutally. I open my eyes to see Caleb, who has a machine breathing for him. A man who’s never caused anyone harm. A man who’s done his best to love people well. A man who is sweet, and kind, and loved by so many.

In the place of prayer, I offer my pain. I let it all go until I’m spent and emptied and nothing but a sopping mess of tears. Until my head and heart both ache with it. Until I feel like there is nothing left.

In the aftermath, it’s silent.

I think I’ll always instinctively call out to some form of deity or greater force, it’s what I was taught to do, and I am proudly my mother’s daughter.

But I know now that if there is someone or something out there…I can’t rely on them as I once did. I have to believe, moving forward, that they are as human as me, as powerless. Because anyone who had more control than I do, more ability to intervene, to save, to help, wouldn’t allow so much suffering.

I have to believe that.

So, before I finish, I apologize to them for their lack of control. I commiserate with them, knowing that we must feel the same. I thank them for their time. For the slight relief I feel, having laid the hurt out for them.

And, I say goodbye.

For now, and forever after, I will have to stand on my own two feet.

Amen.