Turning Out Your Lights

I sat there, feeling the car idle, listening to the rumble of the engine as I pondered whether or not I could get out of the vehicle this time around. The clock on the dashboard told me it was seven forty-two in the morning. Six hours of driving after arriving in the airport had landed me here. It was funny how I knew this route by heart already, not even living in the country. But I could never forget how to get here, even when I will eventually stop coming.

The sun had already risen, like it always did early in this part of California. Shadows were cast in the early morning sun in the parking lot. Not many other people were here yet, and I wasn’t quite sure people were even allowed in this early. But I was here. And I could guarantee that it was going to take me at least another hour of sitting here to convince myself that I needed to do this. I had already been here since seven. And I could use all the mental encouragement I could muster, to be honest.

I’m not exactly sure how many times I have sat here, mentally slapping myself in the face for getting all the way here, and not having enough courage and strength to walk in those doors to see the person I have been missing for over a year now. And I’ve ripped up even more plane tickets, thwarting myself from even beginning the venture here.

This was hard. Harder than anything else I had ever been through, and the one person who I always had to get me through things was the person I was trying to see now.

There was no way I could keep coming back here, only to not even step foot on the asphalt of the car park. Countless times I had arrived in California late at night on a redeye, driving for six hours to make it to this destination, then I would sit in the car and decide I wasn’t ready for this yet, that I needed to waste more time before I said goodbye. I had myself convinced that I could do it someday, walk through those doors and get this over with so I could, in theory, move on. But I’ve had myself waiting to do this for a year now.

Taking flights halfway across the world just to get here, once, twice a month wasn’t rare for me. Ripping up the tickets I would buy every other week was even more common. Getting myself to actually face what I came here for was a completely different matter, and by this point, I was damn sick of waiting to buck up and deal.

Apparently, it was easier for me to envision doing this than to actually do it. It was easier to think that I was finally ready to see her again, to get the closure I so ached for. Thinking is only half of the process though, unfortunately. The actions part is what holds me back one hundred percent of the time.

This time though, I was praying that I could find strength within myself to face this, to open the door of the shitty rented car and walk through the doors I had never been remotely close to. I could do this right for once and do what I came to do. I wouldn’t have to return home to the face of my brother and mother and father, ready to console me for my “loss,” and help me through this. Well, every time I returned home, I had to inform them that I wasn’t able to do it. Not the first time, and not the tenth time.

I wanted to stop wasting time, to stop wasting however many breaths she had left, to stop wasting my own. I wanted to do this, to get what I came here for. I was sick of staying here, wondering if this time would be the right time. If I could do it, if I could hold up long enough to get from the airport to the hospital and hope that I wouldn’t cry when I saw her.

My hand flinched towards the door handle. I was surprised it made this involuntary action on its own. Thoughts of the past came flooding into my head though before I had the chance to actually follow through with opening the door.

She was at one of their shows, a camera glued to her hand and a smile plastered on her face the entire time. I wondered if she was a fan of their music. But I was here for a job of course, not to look at the other photographers working alongside me.

My pictures may have suffered because of how concentrated I was on her, instead of my brother prancing about the stage, or the sweat flying off of Nicholl’s arms as he played the drums without his shirt on. I wanted to waste a few of my shots on her, to capture that smile as she captured the people I was supposed to be focused on.

I let my camera slip out of my hand, in her direction, while my finger happened to press the shutter button. At least I had one hopeful and “accidental” picture of her. I suddenly wished the show was over, that the people could clear out and I could attempt a conversation with her. Nothing would be happening so long as music was blaring and there were photographs to be taken.

What happened that night may be called a miracle by some, I would consider it that, as well as a lifeline. Somehow we spoke. She smiled and words fell out of my mouth like I had no control over my speech. She seemed to like it though, or maybe she felt sorry for me. Either way, I was talking to her. Until I was nearly physically dragged to the bus where we would then depart.

And then we were friends. She called me, I called her. I was traveling the country to a new state everyday, falling in love with someone who I wouldn’t see until the next time we came around. But it happened. She was the light of my life when everything was dark. I fell in love with someone I couldn’t be with the majority of the time, but I needed to have her in my life somehow, any way possible.

We made it work.

We made it work for one year, seven months, and twenty-eight days.

The band had been in California for our one year, seven month anniversary. Coincidence? Of course not. I happen to have quite a bit of sway over my brother. (He’s much more of a sappy romantic than he could ever let on to. But aren’t we all?)

Her mother called me the day after we arrived home from the American tour, informing of the crash her daughter, my girlfriend, had been in. I flew back to California the same day she called me. And I couldn’t even get out of the car then. I couldn’t get myself to step out of the car, to walk to her room and see her. To observe how she was doing, to witness the damage that had been inflicted upon her because of someone else’s actions. To do anything to be close to her.

The closest I could get to her was the parking lot of the hospital.

That’s still the closest I’ve ever gotten.

My hand flinched towards the handle again, feeling the smooth plastic handle. It rested there. I remembered the letter sitting on the console. The first time I wrote her the letter was after I unsuccessfully visited the second time. I thought that maybe writing something down would help me, something that I could leave for her to wake up to should I actually make it inside the hospital. I sealed it up in an envelope, instructing myself not to read it again after I had written it.

But I ripped that envelope open after coming home the third time with no success, angry at myself for not being able to walk into a goddamn hospital to visit someone I loved. Then I rewrote that letter. I added more. Described more in detail how much I loved her, how much more I needed her to wake up.

I told myself thatif she when she woke up, I would ask her to marry me. I would move all the way to California from England. There was nothing I wouldn’t do.

And yet I couldn’t even take one look at her. It had been over a year, and I couldn’t take a look at someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, while she teetered between life and death everyday. I really hoped she was much closer to waking up than letting go.

But I hated to face it. I was the only one who couldn’t seem to face it. It had been over a year, and there had been no progress. Even her parents knew that this was the end. They had their closure. They said their goodbyes. I was the only one wasting time by trying to get myself to her, to say what I needed to, and then get on with my life.

If the people who raised her were able to do that, I was questioning why I couldn’t. Why I couldn’t move on and accept that I had lost her.

This was it.

I grabbed the letter, my shaking hand closing on it and holding it tight with the other hand opened the door handle. Progress. This was further than I had ever made it before. One foot landed on the asphalt, I slid out of the seat and stood up. A gentle breeze came over me, waking me up from the funk of being awake for over twenty-four hours now.

My feet pounded one in front of the other. The sliding glass doors were getting closer. I could see inside the hospital now. It looked much better than the interior I had always pictured. I prayed for strength as I forced myself not to give up and head back to the car, back to the airport where I would wait for the next flight back to Sheffield.

The doors opened for me as I walked through them, inside of the hospital now, certainly farther than I had ever thought I could make it. But this time it was going to happen. It had to. Because I really wasn’t sure if I could make it back here another time and keep a hold on my sanity, or what was left of it, anyways.

I could drive to this hospital better than any other place in the States, but seemingly I didn’t know left from right in here. It was completely unfamiliar, a bit ironic to how acquainted I had gotten with the parking lot over the past year.

Her room was on the fifth floor.

The door to her room was slightly open, no noise coming out of it of course, as I would assume a person in a coma does not make much noise. I could hear and feel my heart pounding, beating against my ribs as I took every step closer to that door. Before even entering I had to wait outside for a moment to collect myself, prepare myself for seeing her for the first time in a year. The mental image of the last time I saw her would be shattered, but I had to do this. I had to make it known to myself that I couldn’t keep coming back here to say goodbye, and not even complete the task. I had to do it now, and that one goodbye was going to have to suffice for a lifetime.

I don’t know how I expected her to look when I finally did make it to this room, but she looked beautiful. She always did. Even in this state she was breathtaking, appearing so peaceful as she laid there, not quite living but not quite dead. I didn’t think it was as hard as I thought it would be, until a few tears sprung to my eyes. Quite a few tears.

And this of course wasn’t the first time I’ve cried over her. You can count every time I flew home without saying goodbye there were tears.

These weren’t any different. But these were tears of love. Tears that said I know things will never be the same, and I’m starting to get over it. Tears of realization that I wouldn’t get her back, that she’d be gone soon. That didn’t stop me from leaving that letter on the bedside table. Cards and pictures and other letters filled the table, building up over time from other friends and family. They did it. They said their goodbyes.

And in my letter all I talked about was what would happen when she woke up.

I was convinced she would.

Well, if she wakes up, she can read about how much I love her, how I will do anything to be closer to her, because I had been gone when this happened. I wish I could have always been with her, around her. And if she doesn’t wake up, she’ll still know how much I love her.

I took a chair next to her bed and just watched her. Just watched her face that I had only so many occasions to memorize, take in every detail that was what I considered perfection. And as I stared, I realized she was gone. She just wasn’t there anymore, and I knew then that she would never come back.

And I kissed her. And of course it was nothing like any other kiss had been.

“Goodbye, love.”

Then I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and left.

I walked out of the hospital room, feeling alarmingly empty, but somehow completed. A part of me was left in the hospital room with her, but I was fulfilled in what I had come here to do, to get my closure and finally see that it was time to move on. I didn’t want to move on from loving her, to find someone who could never be the same as her, but I was ready to move on from obsessing over getting a call from her family telling me she was alright now, that she was awake.

Driving out of the lot I realized how much healthier and happier I could allow myself to be now. I could live life how I wanted now, without always worrying, always obsessing. I knew now that if she left, it would be in peace, and she would be where she needed to. And I could know that wherever she was, she could be happy. And I could be happy.

I’ll always be miles away from her, whether she is living or dead. And it’s just something I’ve come to accept. It took finally seeing her to realize that she is gone, I will never again be as close to her as I wanted, and that the light she once left on my life has been turned out.

And I’m okay with that.