Surrounded by the Nothing by Donna Page c 01/01/2022

 The rain appears fine, yet heavy.  Looking more like a morning mist enveloping the sunrise than pouring rain. The distance is hidden in the grey.

The blinds in ICU let in what light there is. The lights are off in the room. The ceiling lights that is. The lights on the monitors blink constantly. Reminding me that he isn’t doing this on his own.  

Each breath registers on the screen. The oxygen increased as he struggles more for that pressure air we take for granted. His heart rate blinks rapidly. You can see that fourth sound. The mystery that young interns get to discover for themselves. The look on their faces is general astonishment. The sound we hear but can not see. 

He is a mystery. They are asking why. How could the cancer treatment go so well, yet he sits in ICU. Two weeks after he should be at home. Nothing is coming back.  Why does the corner number read 38.7?  Surely someone has an answer. Why will his body not let them know?

Antibiotics seem to stop the temperature going higher. They are certainly not beating it down. They are limiting the fight of what ever it is ravaging his body but they are not defeating it. 

The tube carrying that priceless oxygen to his nose gently rocks with each breath. His head tilted to the side. He can no longer lay down. He needs to be propped up so that the fluid doesn’t win. The fluid wants to take over his lungs. 

He is not inclined to eat, but can be won over with ice cream or the occasional treat. His weight loss clearly visible now. Small treats make him smile. But they fill him.  He doesn’t want the salad with the dry meat. The sandwich without butter.  

He sleeps now. You can see his dreams. His fingers talking, his lips moving silently. His body twitches. He wakes briefly and looks at me, 

“We got this, Baby” 

and then dozes again. The sleep of a restless spirit.

I long to hold him in my arms. To wrap him in the safety of our embrace. I can only gently hold his shoulders. His head in my neck.  Mostly I sit. The chair hard underneath me. Watching him sleep.  Watching him battle to win yet another conflict in this war his body is waging. 

I take a lap around his small room. When it is empty it appears quite large. The equipment overshadows everything. The row of pumps behind him, ready to administer all the medications through the line in his arm. 

Progress is a word we hear. But then  set back follows that. His temperature spikes. More tests. His oxygen lowers, more tests. His blood pressure goes up, drugs to bring it down. Blood pressure plummets. Different drugs. 

His body wants to win this war they tell me.  A fever means a fight. He will overcome this, we will walk away triumphant again. When? I can not answer that. I so wish I could. It seems no one can.

Looking Across the Room by Donna Page ç 24/12/2021

 Christmas Eve, the light begins to dim early as the storm clouds cover the sky. The room is enveloped in a sense of grey, echoing how I feel. 

I am torn between the joy I have that he has survived cancer and my sorrow for the Christmas I wanted. Our special meal, sharing tales and tables. Eating until we can’t move and then eating some more.

I sit in a comfortable chair at least. My tailbone appreciates that. I can curl up a little in this one. It is wide and on wheels. I have locked the brakes because I know I would scoot around the room in it. Somethings don’t change. Swivel chairs are meant to spin, chairs with coasters are meant to roll.

Cancer has taken it’s toll on his body. He sleeps a lot now. Sleep is healing, right? His pretty eyes are somewhat dull, his beautiful soft hair is all but gone. 

I watch him as he sleeps, his breathing fast and shallow. The mystery lung infection is having an impact. He hasn’t eaten much in a few days now.  I bought him a sausage roll yesterday. He really enjoyed that. But he has had little else.

His temperature keeps on spiking and without supplemental oxygen he coughs constantly. The doctors are flummoxed. A week ago he was fine to go home. Today we hope for next week. Our own Christmas miracle.

I try to be bright and cheery for him. It is hard.  I am feeling alone and broken. All this is out of my control. I can do nothing to fix it.  I am a fixer. What have I got if I can’t fix?  I am becoming rather dull myself. I can’t seem to keep that spark lit.  The burning ember is there but it is fading into the dark wick. 

He is safe, he will be coming home when it is right. But now, in this moment, that is hard to see.