Chapter 45 #3
“Don’t you start apologizing for this,” Marcus chastises. He hands me a cup of ice chips that the nurse must have brought back while I was occupied. “This is not a normal situation, Ethan. None of this is something a person should be expected to just be okay with.”
“You’re not acting like a mental case.”
“If that was Tiff instead of Luke, you bet your fucking ass I’d be right where you are.”
I look at Marcus warily, fearing he’s simply trying to placate me, but then I see the sincerity in his eyes. He probably would be just as freaked out if the roles were reversed. It doesn’t take away the pain I feel now, even knowing that it’s logical.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this,” I whisper. I can’t even bear to look back over at Luke yet—the mere thought of it threatens to bring me right back to the panicked state.
“You’re not alone, dude,” Marcus grips my knee.
“This isn’t going to be like last time. We won’t let you go back down that road, okay?
We’ve got you. And Luke’s alive, man. He’s a little banged up, and will have a long road to recovery, but he’s here.
He’s not going anywhere just yet. This isn’t the same as your dad. ”
He says it with such conviction that it’s hard to discount the words.
He looks at me with such emphatic, unwavering belief that I’m capable of dealing with this that I feel like I owe it to him to at least try to be.
I’m still terrified of backsliding and undoing all the work I’ve put into getting better, but I won’t be forced to navigate it without help.
Still, it takes a few more minutes of focusing on my breathing and chewing on the ice chips before I feel comfortable enough to face Luke without spiraling out of control.
When I can get up, I move over to his side, wrapping his pale hand in mine.
There’s no reaction—no indication he can tell I’m even here.
Not that there would be. It’s so reminiscent of the last time I found myself in this place, sitting beside my father, feeling the warmth that should have indicated life, that it’s difficult not to remember.
The agony clings to me, demanding center stage. I just keep reminding myself that this won’t be like last time. This isn’t like last time. And only time will prove that to be true.
Luke is kept in a medically induced coma for a few days while the doctors continue to monitor his condition. During that time, I remain faithfully by his side like a guard dog, unwilling to leave and more than ready to bite anyone who comes between us. I’m an immovable force.
In truth, I’m too nervous to go home, afraid that the moment I do, something terrible will happen and I’ll miss it.
I couldn’t live with that kind of regret.
Just because Luke’s not underwater anymore doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods yet.
Until he wakes up and tells me he’s okay on his own, I’m going to have a hard time believing it for myself.
Marcus, Tiff, and the others all step up to the plate to help me in a way that’s both immeasurably comforting and, unfortunately, necessary.
They take turns going to check on Misty alone at my house, feeding her, playing with her, and changing her litter box for me.
They bring me back clothes, and I make do with washing up at the bathroom sinks in lieu of a shower.
They rotate who stays with me throughout the day, bringing me food, and forcing me to eat their offerings before they leave.
I’d say it’s a little demeaning being treated like a toddler fussing over unwanted vegetables, but I can’t blame them for their persistence when I know the alternative is that I simply wouldn’t eat.
They know it, too. They’ve seen it before.
So, even as my stomach churns at the idea of food amidst my swirling anxiety, I don’t fight them.
At night, I sleep in the uncomfortable chair next to Luke’s bedside, drowning out the frantic workings of the ICU around me.
I’m practically immune to it by day two.
But I’m trained to the subtlest change in the heart monitor attached to Luke, snapping awake at the slightest irregularity.
Meanwhile, my anxiety is so intense that I can feel how my body goes numb to counteract it.
It’s the only way I can stay sane at the moment, even though I know it’s not good long-term.
Eventually, when the doctors are confident that Luke’s made the positive upswing necessary to be taken off the ventilator, they slowly begin the process of weaning him off it.
It takes a full day after that before they extract the breathing tube.
And when Luke blessedly keeps breathing on his own without the support, I could cry with happiness.
I never thought I’d be more pleased to hear his soft snoring in my entire life.
Watching the entire process is nerve-wracking, a little bit scary, but also morbidly fascinating. It’s a good sign—a step toward Luke’s recovery, one I cling to with everything I have.
They take him off of the sedatives, but he remains unconscious as they finally move him to a private room upstairs and out of the ICU.
He’s completely unaware as a new string of nurses come in to continually check his vitals and blood levels.
Waiting for him to wake up might be the next worst thing I’ve ever had to experience.
As the minutes tick to hours, it almost feels like he’ll never wake up.
The doctors say it’s unlikely he’ll have complications but that it’s not out of the realm of possibility. If he stays asleep for too long, it might be a sign of underlying issues. They assure me they’re monitoring it, and I have no reason not to trust them.
But in the private room, away from the hustle and bustle of activity in the ICU to keep me awake, my exhaustion creeps up on me like a thief in the night, and I find myself having a hard time keeping my eyes open while I wait.
Days of terrible sleep weigh me down, the quiet acting like a heavy blanket over my frazzled senses.
With the chair pulled over to the side of his bed, I take his hand and put my head down on his legs, telling myself I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes. If only my body agreed.