A YOUNG DOCTOR with dark hair and glasses came around the corner and introduced himself to us.  He told us that they were examining Mary Elizabeth to understand what was causing her balance and vision problems.  He remarked that she was quite charming, very friendly and engaging.  He assured us that she was in good hands, and told us he would be back as soon as they knew anything.

It was a bit surreal, starting out the evening all dressed up and heading off to a holiday concert and dinner, to wind up sitting alone in a down-at-the-heels hospital waiting for word.  Charlotte and I chatted, but I began to miss Mary Elizabeth almost immediately.  After almost 20 years of marriage, one of the things we enjoyed most about each other was our company.  We always had something to talk about and our friends and family would make fun of us, saying things like “Aren’t you sick of each other by now?” or “What could you two possibly have to talk about?”  But we weren’t and our topics of conversation were broad ranging – from our kids, to our careers and happy (or not-so-happy) memories.  The fact is that I would prefer to talk to Mary Elizabeth than pretty much anybody else.  And at that precise moment, I was missing that.  This would be the time where the two of us would be strategizing, talking about what was going on and figuring out some next steps.  It was good to talk to Charlotte and discuss what touristy things we would do that week, but of course there was an undercurrent of unspoken worry about Mary Elizabeth.

Although we hadn’t had dinner, we weren’t hungry and sat in the chairs in the semi-darkness waiting to see Mary Elizabeth and to go back to the hotel together.  I had an email from Michael saying the concert was almost over and wondering whether he should come to the hospital to help us navigate the medical system if necessary.  I told him I was sure we’d be fine and not to bother, but I did appreciate his offer.

Several minutes later, there seemed to be some commotion going on and several people went running by talking about an emergency CT scan. I normally wouldn’t have noticed it, except we were alone and everything was quiet, so any activity was highlighted.  About ten minutes after that the doctor came back, looking very serious and gave us an update.  While he was talking to Mary Elizabeth and getting her history, she suddenly lost consciousness in mid-sentence apparently and stopped breathing.  They immediately put her on a ventilator, and ordered a CT scan since at this point, they felt that it might be an issue with her brain.  He reiterated that this was very serious and a major cause for concern.  Charlotte and I were stunned as we hadn’t expected this bad turn of events.  A nurse came from around the corner and asked us to follow her into a small family waiting room – essentially a private room with a ratty couch and a couple of chairs and a low coffee table.  The room was probably 8 x 8 and had no windows or anything else on the walls other than holes and some stains.  There was a grimy window in the door, through which we could see the empty hallway.  The nurse left us, promising to come back with any news.  I emailed Michael that we could use his help and that the situation had taken a serious turn, and he emailed back saying he was already on his way and would be there in about 30 minutes.

Even though I didn’t really believe what was going on, my body was reacting – probably from the adrenalin.  It seemed to me that there was a low thrumming in my ears – almost an internal soundtrack of suspense and anxiety.  Intellectually, I understood what was happening but it wasn’t really registering that Mary Elizabeth was unconscious and on a ventilator.  The stark juxtaposition of what we were doing several hours before to what we were doing now reminded me of my childhood fish tank.  I kept some black mollies, zebra fish and some swordtails and took their care very seriously, making sure the filter was always clean and that any accumulated dirt was removed.  The first time I got new fish however, I neglected to float the plastic bag in the tank to get them acclimatized to the water temperature, and instead just poured them into the tank. The new fish promptly went into shock, keeling over (well, whatever the underwater equivalent would be of keeling over) drifting motionless in the water.  That’s kind of what I felt like – stunned and incapable of action or movement – just sitting and maybe not even thinking that much.  Just reacting on some instinctual level.

Charlotte and I sat on the sofa, holding hands and not speaking much.  I think I kept asking her how she was, to which she invariably and patiently said “fine.”  A few minutes later, Melanie showed up and joined us in the family room.  She told us that Michael was not far behind. So the three of us sat there waiting.  Not too much later, the young doctor came back with the nurse, and accompanied by two other doctors.  They all crowded into the room, and we stood up when they entered, so we were all standing in the tiny room waiting to hear what the news was.

The first thing I noticed was that the doctor was crying.  Not sobbing, but his face was wet, and his voice was breaking as began to speak.  They had the results of the CT scan and Mary Elizabeth had suffered a massive bleed in her brainstem and midbrain.  This was an inoperable location and there was no treatment for a bleed in this area, which governs the more primitive functions like breathing, arousal, temperature and heart rate.  According to the scan, the blood was encircling the entire brainstem making the odds of survival extremely low.  He stated that he didn’t think that she would survive the next 24 hours, and that we would likely have to make some very difficult decisions in the next day.  I wasn’t sure why he was so upset – he almost certainly having had had to deliver news like this many times over.  Perhaps it was because 10-year old Charlotte was there, hearing everything.  Or perhaps it was because Mary Elizabeth arrived alert and aware, charming and chatty and had made an impact on the doctor before lapsing into a coma.

I couldn’t think of any questions to ask, and I stood immobile and silent until the nurse reached out and handed me Mary Elizabeth’s wedding and engagement rings, taped together.  That snapped me out of it, and I suddenly became hyper aware of what was going on.  I heard Charlotte sobbing as she clutched my arm, shaking from the force of her tears.  I looked over to Melanie, whose face had gone ashen and who was expressionless.  I looked back to the doctors and nurse who stood tentatively, not knowing I guess what I was going to do. Was I going to fall down and begin screaming and crying?  Faint away?  No – I just stood there, immobile, uncomprehending yet comprehending at the same moment.  I asked if we could see her, and they said they needed to get her settled before we went in and that it would be a little while.  I asked for a chaplain to come since we could use the support, and if it was indeed as dire as they said, there were probably some specific prayers and services to be said.

The doctor suggested I call home with the news and invited me to use any of the phones around, or my own mobile.  It took me a few minutes to figure out how to get an outside line, and to dial the country code and area code in the right sequence.  I finally got through and Mary Elizabeth’s mother answered the phone.  She was very pleasantly surprised to hear from us and was very jovial.  I told her simply and directly what had happened and what the prognosis was.  She was very calm, asking if Mary Elizabeth and I had had any discussions about final wishes, and if she should start making telephone calls.  I told her to hold off on telling anybody since I wanted to see what the next few days would bring before letting our other two younger children know.  I didn’t want to get their hopes up, but also didn’t want to traumatize them unnecessarily – and I certainly didn’t want them to hear it from anybody else.  I promised to keep her posted on any developments and asked for her prayers.  I tried to reach our minister at home, but was unable to get through – leaving a message on his voicemail telling him what was going on.  Charlotte and I returned to the small room to wait.  By that time Michael had arrived with bags of food – ranging from yoghurt and fruit to candy bars and chips but we weren’t hungry.

The four of us sat in the family room, chatting quietly while we were waiting to see Mary Elizabeth.  Charlotte’s sobbing had subsided somewhat, and she was starting to pose some questions and make some suggestions.  For example, our property borders a cemetery, and Charlotte suggested that we bury Mary Elizabeth there, so we could visit every day.  It seemed like she had processed what was happening and was perhaps staving off the horror of that evening with practical thoughts.  Every so often, however, she’d break down again, digging her hands into my arms until it hurt, while she rocked back and forth keening quietly.  At one point, she looked up at me, tears streaming down her blotchy face and said, “Don’t you die too!” realizing I suppose that she was going to have only one parent.

As horrifying as the scenario was for me, it hadn’t sunk in yet what was really happening.  Intellectually, I understood that Mary Elizabeth had a massive stroke and would probably die.  We’d figure out a way to move on, but it seemed so unreal.  I kept thinking about how we had been together just hours earlier, happily getting ready for a night out, and here we were sitting in a tiny grim room 3,000 miles away from home in a hospital somewhere in London, being told we’d never see Mary Elizabeth again.

It was that sudden realization that she was gone – without warning or preparation.  It was like a story that Mary Elizabeth used to tell about a friend of hers who was visiting Scotland and was walking by the sea.  It was a nice day and a lot of people were out despite the strong winds.  A family was walking along the water, where one of their young children was standing on a breakwater. Without any warning, a huge wave came up and swept the child away, out to sea with no trace.  I’m sure that the suddenness of that child’s death or even Mary Elizabeth’s could be seen to be a blessing to somebody who is suffering from terminal cancer or alzheimer’s disease, but there was something so incomprehensible about this turn of events.

Go to next chapter: Reunited Briefly