Pleasure of the Pain

I sat in the waiting room of the hospital ward, the uncomfortable plastic chairs meant I had an excuse to fidgeting about frequently. They made up 50% of the reason I couldn’t keep still and relax. The other part was that I was waiting for news.

Not happy news, like the to be father waiting next to me, where every time a nurse walks past he asks for more information, or to be devastating news for the woman who’s husband had been in a car crash. Mine was stressful, painful even. I didn’t want the news, yet I was still waiting for it. I knew that if I didn’t wait for it, I’d regret it, whatever way it turned. Unlike the other two, I wasn’t waiting for news on a family member, although it feels like it. I can hear their guts churning in time with mine every time a nurse walks past, almost tricking us into thinking that they have got the news we have been waiting for.

I had been waiting for 3 hours at least, the man 2 and the woman only came in half an hour ago, so logic says I should get my news first. Logic these days doesn’t like to be predictable.
The doctor walked through, calling the woman out to his office. I presumed that was bad news. A few minutes later a nurse called the man to a ward. I presumed that was good news, which made me wonder, what sort of news would I get? A part of me deep down said that it was bad news, as he had tried so hard to get himself into that position that he deserved to end up that way, whilst I myself wanted him to live, as I would never forgive myself for letting him get even close to thinking about this. A big problem that lay in other problems was, what part of me was right?

I could hear another doctor, and looked up when I realised he was trying to make eye contact with me. I let him, and he cleared his throat, before sitting next to me. He spoke in such soft words that all I got was ‘death’ and ‘drip’, which certainly made me panic.

“Sorry?” I asked, “I couldn’t quite hear you properly”

“He’s stable but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t escaped death, we have put him on a drip. It all counts on tonight, wether he can get through it or not.” He repeated, pushing his black rimmed glasses further up his nose, a shiny pair of Ted Baker, I noticed.

“Can I see him?” I asked.

“Yes, but not for long; visiting hours ended two hours ago” he answered.
“Thanks” I stood up and let him lead me to the room.
I sighed at the sight of skin and bones, a thin paper like blanket over him for warmth. There were too many tubes connected to him. Just the thought of one of them not being there, one of them not working, not being able to keep him alive made me feel like I was the husband in a car crash.

His hair wasn’t shiny, it was in matted miserable tufts, his face was pale and he had black rings around his eyes...he didn’t even have his stage makeup on.

“We need to ask you to leave now” the doctor said in a small voice. I didn’t move. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I heard him leave, so I sat on the chair beside the bed, holding the freezing skeleton of a hand in my own warm one.

“We can’t lose you” I whispered. “We’ve lost one already. We can’t lose another. If you think you are going to get away with this, you aren’t. Even if you aren’t going to fight, I will”

It was true, we could try and cope without the other person, as he asked us to, but with two people missing, we’d just be a bad version of Green Day. I didn’t want that to happen, I wanted us to be us, but we can’t be if we have not one, but two massive chunks missing.

I can hear people ask what happened now, I wish I didn’t have to share it, but the doctors said it would make me feel better. I don’t see how, it isn’t my story to tell, I just watched. But they said I would benefit, so I’ll try.