It’s her this time. Not him.
She’s in a medically-induced coma. He was almost always awake.
I could talk to him. I can’t talk to her.
IVs. The same. But more. So many more. Seven in total.
The hospital is the same. It was his favorite one.
I’m scared, just the same. We all are.
My mother-in-law stands beside me, sobbing. We cling to each other. We’re scared, again.
The abyss. Again.
We don’t want to be here. None of us are ready to be here. It’s not time. It’s not her time. It can’t be.
The details seem unreal. A heart attack. A doctor was there, at the party, able to administer CPR immediately. The fire department arrived within minutes. Defibrillation was needed. She was transported to the nearest hospital. Still unconscious. They followed the new protocol for heart attacks, inducing a hypothermic state, slowing her body’s functions, allowing her brain to avoid the shock of a sudden influx of blood, allowing it to avoid the potential for swelling and more damage.
So, we wait. Limbo. Again.
A family in limbo. Bob’s parents not knowing what will happen to their now-youngest living child. A family camped out in a hospital, again. Waiting for answers. Living on cafeteria food. Sneaking out for quick showers, cell phone calls in hallways, hugs and tears, prayers and confusion. Friends arriving. Some you’d never expect. Others, wishing they could be there. Heartbroken they can’t be.
Fucking Groundhog Day.