Utter Shock

 My head is fuzzy. Her voice sounds so far away, this lovely young doctor. My eyes wander to the blood drying on the hospital sheet.  It’s just a spatter from the IV, but I focus on it.  It seems the only tangible thing I can see.  Somehow I sense the gentle pressure of my friend’s hand on mine and I wonder if I’m squeezing hers too hard. My eyes can’t focus for the spots all  around them.  I try to see my husband, frozen in shock, unable to rise from his chair.

“I’m afraid I have bad news.” Bad? I’d cancelled my last two students because I was coughing and wheezing and wanted to go to urgent care. But now I’m in ER. Five minutes ago, I’d thought it was all just an overreaction and I was laughing and talking with the nurses. “You have a mass in your lung…metastasis…spots…liver….bones…cancer.”

“But I’ve never smoked.” Oh, God! Liver? Bones? Doesn’t that mean death? I hear myself say, "Well, I’m mean. I’m not afraid to die, but… but…I want to be around for grandbabies." What about my calling to help children read?  I was just starting to roll on a big, big expansion for children. My master’s program. I was going to write. Travel. Static closes in and expands out and then in again. Funny how fast your brain processes...and how slow.

I tell the doctor I’m trying to focus on what she is saying, but I can’t. Can she please write it down? David and I have so many dreams. We’d just said to each other - wasn’t it just last week - that we would have to die on the same day because we couldn’t face a life without the other. The memory mocks.

I hear a soft voice. Far away.  Is it mine? I’m acknowledging the doctor, but what am I saying? I think I’m saying, “Oh.”

I finally hear my beloved, “Are you sure? Couldn’t it be something else? What causes lung cancer in people  who don’t smoke?” 

“Bad luck.”

It all blurs. He is standing by me now. I think I’m looking at him. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he says. No. We are not okay.

I’m so cold. I hear my friend (wildly, the hospital chaplain on duty- another story for another time) say, “She is in shock. Can we get her a warm blanket?” The nurse is so sweet and I feel bad that I can’t acknowledge her. I focus on the blood again.  It’s concrete.  I’m waiting for the wake-up  part of this nightmare.  It will be such a relief.

David helps me to the bathroom and I think I’m swaying.  I cling to his neck.  “You didn’t sign up for this.” We’ve worked so hard and now I’m going to die before we can enjoy it all…what exactly?

Somehow we walk out. I take in the breathtaking beauty of the May evening, the Montana mountains lighting up in the sunset. We cling to each other. 

We zoom with the kids. I try my best to smile and assure them I’ll fight like hell.  But how do you fight death, exactly? They sob and I feel horrible. They are both finishing up heavy assignments at school two states away. I can’t hug them. Jalen vomits and I can’t hold him. I’m utterly  powerless. 

The night is filled with sobs. First one, then the other. Rotating. Promises in the night. I'll never remarry.” 

“Please don’t say that!”

“Oh, God! My family!”