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“My God,” said Misty. “That’s awful. It wasn’t his fault, and yet he’ll have to live with that guilt his whole life, knowing he played a part in someone else’s death.”
I bristled at the thought. I couldn’t stand to listen to it anymore and so I pushed myself off a bench and walked out.
My friend Luke followed. “Nice to see they’re at it again,” he said of the gossip mill. I smiled. Of the nurses on staff, Luke was the most like me. Age had something to do with it. He and I had ten or fifteen years on most of the other nurses, many of whom had recently graduated from college. As we headed down the hall together, he asked, “Are you feeling okay?”
I glanced at him, drawing my eyes together. “Yeah, fine. Why?”
“You’re quiet,” he said. I looked away, but I could still feel his eyes on me.
“Am I?” I asked, pulling a face because I was trying so hard to act normal.
“Yes,” he said, and then, carefully, “You were late to work yesterday.”
“Oh. That was no big deal. Just a doctor’s appointment,” I said, though Luke and I both know I wouldn’t schedule a routine appointment on a workday, but he thankfully didn’t pry.
Still, I could tell he wanted to say more, that he wasn’t letting me off the hook so easily. “I saw you were wearing your wedding ring yesterday too,” he said, taking me by surprise, and I felt guilty, caught, my face reddening. I didn’t think anyone had noticed. “It’s none of my business,” Luke went on. “But—” he hesitated, treading lightly “—are you and Ben getting back together?”
“God no. It’s just—” I struggled for words to say, coming up with, “Old habits, you know?” It was a mistake to put the ring on. I don’t know what I was thinking. After all those months, it looked so foreign on my finger. I took it off as soon as I got home; I walked straight into my bedroom before Sienna could notice to put it back in the little modular tray in my jewelry box where it belonged.
“Yeah,” he said, “I know. I get it. How’s Sienna doing?” he asked then, changing the subject, and I was glad. I appreciated how often Luke asked about Sienna, how she is, how school is going for her, if I like her friends.
“She’s good. Fine.”
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, how was your date?”
It takes a second. My date. I’d almost forgotten. Suddenly that felt like a lifetime ago, though the mundanity of it, the everydayness of his question, was welcome.
A few nights ago I had a date. His name was Alec. It was the first date I’d been on since Ben’s and my divorce. I met him on an online dating site, which I joined—albeit reluctantly—a few months back. I was wary of joining, but Luke and a couple other nurses at work convinced me to try. The truth is that Sienna is getting older. She grows more independent every day. Knowing she’ll head off to college soon and I’ll be alone for the rest of my life keeps me up at night.
The fact that Ben is dating again is what convinced me. It was the catalyst for my saying yes to a date with Alec. Ever since Sienna let on about Ben’s girlfriend, she’s taken up space in my mind. I’m not so sure I didn’t go on the date to get revenge—putting on a dress I hadn’t worn in years, one which was sexy with a shirred waist and a plunging, deep V-neck, thinking how good it would feel for a man to touch me again, to run his hand under the short skirt of the dress, to stare at me in a wanting way.
But it didn’t. It felt strange, unwanted at the time and now, days later, inconsequential, so much that I’d already forgotten about him.
“Meh,” I said to Luke with a shrug.
“Just meh?” he asked.
“Yeah, just meh. We didn’t connect. It was awkward.”
“That sucks. I’m so sorry, Meghan. His loss. The next one will be better,” he promised, but I wasn’t sure there would be a next one.
Now, in Caitlin’s hospital room, the night nurse comes and gives me the change of shift report. We stand at the bedside, and she goes over her vitals, her medical history, medication and more. She is in a coma still, no better and no worse than she was yesterday. She’s completely unresponsive to all external stimuli, which isn’t unusual for someone in her condition. Patients like her can have different levels of consciousness. Some can be minimally conscious or in a vegetative state. They may flinch when we draw blood. They might grind their teeth, thrash in bed, cry or make other involuntary movements, but not this patient. She can’t do anything on her own, not even breathe.
The only difference today is that sometime last night, after my shift ended, hospital staff located her parents. I find them in the waiting room, where they spent the night practically upright in recliners. I stand and watch them from a distance as they try to sleep. Their eyes are closed but whether they’re actually asleep or not, I can’t say. ICU waiting rooms have a very palpable tension to them, different from anywhere else in the hospital. For the most part, visitors are only allowed to see patients one or two at a time, for short periods of time. They wind up camping out in the waiting room, rotating between grieving, praying, crying, visiting, sometimes sleeping and eating, though that’s rare. They look like zombies by the time they leave, and only sometimes do they get to take their loved ones with them when they go.
I let them sleep. I go back to the patient’s room, but it’s hard being alone with her. I go about my work, going through the motions, trying not to think about what happened before, about what brought her here. I check the monitor and her IVs; I check her vitals and administer medication, but, all the while, my eyes keep drifting back to her face, taking it in, making sure she’s still unconscious. Only about a third of her face is truly visible—the rest is covered with gauze, tubes and tape that pulls unmercifully at the skin—so that she’s practically unidentifiable. She could be anyone. I think of how peaceful she looks now and how contradictory that is to what happened.
Later, visiting hours begin and her parents come to the room. I have my back to the door when they arrive, but I hear the glass slide open and then a woman asks, her voice tentative, “May we please come in?”
I turn to find them standing in the open door. Now that they’re here, I get a better look at them. They’re middle-aged, somewhere around sixty, both gray, though his is more like salt and pepper and hers is silver. They’re well-dressed—her in jeans, a camisole and cardigan, and him in dress pants and a dress shirt, as if he just came from work—though all of it looks slept in and shapeless. They’re practically the same height. They hold hands, clinging fast to each other, desperate for something to hold on to. She wears yesterday’s makeup and it’s smudged around the eyes. “We’re Caitlin’s parents,” she says. “Tom and Amelia Beckett.”
“Yes, please, come in,” I say. “Good morning. I’m Meghan. I’ll be taking care of your daughter today.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” her mother says, but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at her daughter now, taking in the gauze and the tubes, the drains, the IV lines as if seeing them for the first time. She sucks in a breath, pressing her fingers to her mouth, fighting tears. I look away so that I don’t get choked up by her reaction. I feel responsible for it. Seeing a loved one like this is hard to digest. Being in an ICU is an adjustment; it can be overwhelming at first, for many reasons. The lights in the room are harsh. They do nothing for a patient’s appearance. The sheer number of people coming into and out of the room every day is exhausting: residents and attendings, respiratory therapists, nutritionists, PTs and OTs, more. It’s hard for families to remember who everyone is. They worry every new face is the harbinger of bad news. The constant buzzing and the beeping of the machines is unfamiliar. It can be frightening, because people don’t know what they mean. They worry every sound a machine makes is something bad, potentially life-threatening.
“Can I touch her?” Mrs. Beckett asks as they come to stand at their daughter’s bedside.
“Of course you can,” I say, watching as she lays a tentative hand on Caitlin’s arm, careful not to dislodge the peripheral line.
