And So It Begins. Post 2

Day 2: John and Emma: What Are We Doing?

The whir of the respirator is as maddening as it is necessary.

Medication and feeding solutions are pumping into various tubes attached to Drew’s arms. He breathes with quiet regularity, apparently aware of nothing. He’s been moved to a  private room in the Trauma Unit.

            Mercifully, Emma arrives.

            “Oh, Jesus, John. I’m so sorry. I got here as soon as I could.”

            Emma Castoros is our friend, but mostly my longest, best friend. She stood by our side at our commitment ceremony twenty years ago, and again at our legal wedding at San Francisco’s City Hall rotunda ten years later. Emma and I met in our respective post-grad programs at Berkeley.

“I brought a vase. I thought you might need one. You know, for the flowers.”  She pauses and adds, “It’s one of mine. Thought he might enjoy that.” Emma has become a semi-celebrity producing modern sculpture that debuted to some acclaim. The ensuing decades cemented her status in the local, (if not national) arts community. She has long-ago progressed from vases to statuary. One of  her bronze nudes holds court in our back garden.

            An architect by training, I have become, against all predictions, a writer. Most recently, cook books.

We settle into the two visitor chairs and search for what to say.

“He looks like he’s resting.” Emma, the optimist.

“He looks like shit.” I catch myself. I realize Drew might be able to hear us. We talk for a few minutes in whispers. I can’t bring myself to make the accident real by talking about it.

"It's okay, John.. We don’t have to talk, you know.” We sit in silence. I look over and smile. She smiles back. I begin to feel like I should be entertaining her.

Emma must be picking up on my nervousness and fidgets. Thinking it might be better,

she begins, “So. What are you working on?”

Oh, so we’re talking now, I think. I give it a try. “Best of Tuscan Breads. It’s in final editing stages. Of course, you know that final edits bring out the worst in me. Despite reassurances from my editor.”

We are making small talk. Drew may be dying and we’re making chit-chat. I’m incredulous and at the same time, I have no idea what to talk about at a time like this. Emma, uncomprehending, forges ahead.

“Christine?”

“What?”

“Christine, your editor?”

“Yes, Christine. Despite her best efforts, I still experience her edits as criticism. Drew is always glad when my manuscripts get past this final stage. I’ve been swinging for the fences again for the past seven years, hoping for a hit. Nothing has ‘caught fire’ as Christine likes to call it.”

“Yes.” Emma nods, then adds with an air of hopefulness, “But your last two. They both made the Times’ best-seller list, didn’t they?” She nods again, encouragingly. I smile for moment, then double over in convulsive sobs.

“What the fuck are we doing?” I spit out in a whisper.

I don’t want Drew to hear me so upset, so I run into the rest room. Emma, mercifully doesn’t follow.

Day 2: Drew: Nothing’s Very Normal These Days.

  Well, thank god John has someone to talk to besides me. But who is it? It would really help if everyone could speak up and stop mumbling. There’s so much buzzing and whirring and clanking, especially when the woman with the Southern drawl fiddles with my bed.

            John, I know you’re upset and I wish you could hear me. I actually seem to be fine. I say “seem to” because it’s an odd place I’m in. Nothing works. I can’t talk, move or, for that matter, feel anything. Which is actually kind of nice. Not to complain, but every so often my foot itches like a motherfucker. Holy hell. Did I say that? You’re gonna have to give me a little leeway. I think things and use words that aren’t normal for me. But then, nothing’s very normal these days, is it? But back to my foot. I’d give anything to be able to scratch it.

Day 2: John: What Happened.

Emma arrives with hot coffee. Setting it on the faux-wood side table, she unwinds one of

her many purple scarves and drops into the comfortable sleeper chair that Dr. Creasy has ordered for my overnight stays next to Drew. I motion to Drew: “I want to be here when he wakes up.”

“John, can you stop pacing for a minute, please? You’re starting to make me nervous.” Emma smiles, nods to the empty chair near the window, and adds, “Sorry about yesterday. I’m out of practice. Hell, I never know quite what to say. It’s been so long since…” She trails off. What she doesn’t say is, “Since Marty died.” She’s been through this.

“Emma, it’s just so surreal.”

“Are you ok to talk about it today?” she asks, taking a sip from one of the coffees.

I nod. “I think I was afraid that talking about it would make it, you know, real.”

Emma reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry to say, it doesn’t get more real than this, kiddo. I wish I could make it all go away.”

“Yeah, I know. Me, too.”

“So. What happened? Are you ok to talk about it?  I mean, best you can piece together?” Emma follows me as I continue to traverse the room and back. She smiles and reaches out to stop me. “Please. Please sit? I know you’re upset, but you’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

“Sorry. I don’t know what to do with myself here. I hate hospitals.” I gesture to Drew. “And, by the way, Drew’s doctor says it’s just possible he can hear us. Just so you know. You don’t want to accidentally blurt out that you really hate that lemony dessert he makes.” And to Drew, “I’m just kidding my love. But if that would make you mad enough to protest, to let us know, I’d be fine with it.”

We turn toward Drew and wait for a response that doesn’t come..

“Ok. So what happened?”

I settle in to the visitor’s chair across from Emma. “It was just  a normal Monday. It was, in fact, one of the first few Mondays that Drew wasn’t seeing patients in his office on Twenty-Fourth Street. His usual routine took him into Noe Valley before the rest of San Francisco woke up. Most mornings he had time for a cup of Mike’s Blend from his favorite coffee shop while he reviewed the files for patients he would see starting at eight.

            “He was still getting used to the idea of semi-retirement. You remember his last birthday, right?  He said when he reached sixty-five he would be cutting back. We talked a lot about it and he finally cut his practice in half.”

“I remember. You two had more long weekends for travel.” Emma’s face is kind, wanting to somehow lessen the pain she sees in mine. “After this is all over,” she starts, but stops. Travel is the least of our concerns for now.

I catch myself. “We’ve got to remember to whisper.”