AFTER A WHILE, we stirred and started to wonder what was going on and how much longer it would take.  Michael emptied out the bag of food and we started to sift through its contents which included yoghurt, Cadbury dairy milk, some other candy bars, a sandwich or two, cookies and some bananas.  I couldn’t remember whether Michael had shown up with the food, or went out later to get it, but it was a thoughtful, generous gesture and one which was coming in handy as we started to get a little hungry.  Charlotte had a yoghurt and a cookie, and I may have had a candy bar.

Before too long, they came to take me and Charlotte in to see Mary Elizabeth.  She was in a darkened room with three other patients, but each was in a corner so there was plenty of room.  She had been transferred into a bed and was wearing a hospital gown.  There were a lot more monitors and IVs than there were downstairs, and she was still on the ventilator.  Other than the rise and fall of her chest, she was completely still, looking for all the world like she was sound asleep, in a pool of soft yellow light being cast by a lamp which swung out from the wall.

Charlotte stood on one side of the bed and I on the other and we held her hands.  I whispered in her ear a few times and kissed her cheek, but there was no response.  It was hard to reconcile such a serene and beautiful demeanor with such a dire prognosis.  Shouldn’t she look worse at this point?  I of course couldn’t see her brain, but could it be that bad when she looked so calm and healthy on the outside?  It just didn’t add up to me.

At first glance, the room was much like its equivalent in the states, expect for a large slanted desk which stretched the entire foot of the bed.  There were shelves and drawers underneath and on the desk surface was a huge piece of graph paper on which the nurse inscribed hourly vital signs and other readings.  Astonishingly, there was a 1:1 ratio of nurse to patient here, with Mary Elizabeth being the sole responsibility of the nurse, whose home base was the slanted desk.  While she would leave the room to get supplies or take things away, she was stationed the rest of the time at Mary Elizabeth’s bed.

The other main difference between our experience in London and the US was that not one single person had mentioned insurance to us yet. We were not asked for insurance cards, given forms to fill out or distracted in any way from our focus on Mary Elizabeth.  Yet the level of care that Mary Elizabeth was receiving was as comprehensive and compassionate as any she had ever received in the states.  The surroundings were less glamorous and there was a distinct lack of panels and plaques hanging all over the place with generous donors’ names inscribed, but that didn’t seem to affect the care being given.

We were finally told to go back to the hotel, with the promise that if anything changed, they would call us immediately. I gave them our numbers and said goodnight to Michael and Melanie.  The hospital had arranged a taxi for us because even if there were taxis in the East End, we’d have trouble finding one at 4am.  Chaplain Ben showed us downstairs and we waited by the emergency room entrance in the dark, dank alley we had seen 8 hours earlier when we were getting out of the ambulance.

As I was standing there in the damp darkness with Charlotte, looking around at the dirty darkened buildings with absolutely no idea where we were, the enormity of the situation came crashing down on me.  I felt overwhelmed and helpless, waiting in a dark alley with my 10-year old daughter, my wife dying in the hospital and my other two 8-year old children 3,000 miles away.  Deep breaths.

Finally a car pulled up and asked if I were Mr. Brennan and when I nodded, he got out and opened the door.  Once inside, we sped through the deserted streets towards Canary Wharf.  Nothing looked familiar to me, and I had only the vaguest impression that we were traveling southeast.  And then just ahead of us loomed the modern buildings of the Wharf, including the curvilinear form of our hotel lit up against the misty night sky.

When we got inside, I told a somewhat uncomprehending front desk clerk what was going on and to ensure that the switchboards didn’t close down for the night.  I wasn’t sure if she understood what I was talking about until I finally said slowly, “My wife is dying in Royal London Hospital” to make sure she got it, since English wasn’t her first, second or even third language.  She gave us a puzzled and only slightly sympathetic look as we headed up to the tenth floor.

Once in the room, Charlotte changed into pajamas quickly an got ready for bed.  We were both pretty tired, but stayed up a few more minutes to see if there was anything more to be said.  Charlotte, who had adjusted remarkably quickly to what was going on, suggested that perhaps Mary Elizabeth could be buried in the cemetery which borders our property so we could visit every day.  I didn’t know what to say, so I just hugged her and kissed her goodnight.  I asked if she wanted to sleep in the bedroom instead of the rollaway, but she was fine where she was and drifted off pretty quickly.

I, on the other hand, had a hard time sleeping.  I closed the door, sat on the edge of the bed and wept.  Lights on and still in my clothes, I felt swept up in a whirlpool of disorganized thoughts about that evening and about what life was going to be like when we got back to New York.  What about Christmas?  Would it ever be the same?  How would we recover?  How could my kids possibly grow up without a mother?  It was unfair and I didn’t understand why this was happening.  Far off in the distance, I could see the two towers of the Royal London Hospital’s new buildings, and took some comfort from the fact that I could at least point to where my wife lay, a victim of a bleed in her brainstem.  I finally changed out of my clothes, turned off the light, asked for strength to face what lay ahead, and slept.

Go to Chapter Three