They said it was bad and my decision to come saved my life. Ten and a half hours in the emergency room, I spoke maybe a few words to my brother, who had packed me a bag for when a hospital room would be ready. A wave of depression and shock at the news; could not speak—even scarier, I could not bring myself to pray.
Admitted to a critical care unit, technologically advanced, state of the art, a camera where Big Brother would occasionally watch me while the nurses had their breaks or were with other patients and check on me. I had been on the drip twelve hours, and I still could only state the bare facts to the staffs helping me.
The nurse for the evening shift asked me many questions—some easier to answer than others. I was still in a daze, petrified, stupefied. But the first question I remember: “Will you accept life-saving measures?” I had to pause at that one. I stumbled out, “No.” The other nurse and the tech made me comfortable on the bed.
The questions kept coming and I answered by rote. But, in my head, two tracks of thought can run simultaneously, and I thought about how I answered. There was the brother and sister-in-law and their family. Most especially there was mom. I had watched her mother deal with losing a child before her time had come.
The nurse was about to leave to allow me the requisite fifteen minutes of rest I was bound to get. I stopped her. “Can I change my answer to the first question?” “Yes, of course.” “Have to think of other people besides myself.” She said, “It’s hard sometimes.” We shared a look. Four days later, I went home.
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