The doctor runs this spinning spike thing over the bottoms of Leah’s feet and the inside of her hands, getting no reaction from her. Thirty-six hours have passed and the sedation is fully removed from Leah. He said all he wanted was some slight sort of movement, but he’s not getting it.

“I’d like for the three of you to step out while we remove the tube in her throat. We need to get everything inside her body going again, including breathing.”

“Is that safe? Do we know if she’ll breathe on her own?” Aaron asks while Stella has tears in her eyes.

The doctor slips his hands into his pockets and sighs, “This is the same as before. We must do it and worst-case scenario we can put her back on the ventilator. She is weaned down as low as she can be. This is all that’s left before she will become too dependent on it. But I have very high hopes that this will go smoothly according to all of her tests and blood work.”

“I’m not leaving.” The doctor stares at me knowing this is going to be a battle, one that I will win.

“Sir, this is not something that you want to watch,” the doctor says, looking over to Leah’s parents for help with me. He’s out of luck there.

“Yes, it is.”

“I could have security come up here,” he threatens.

“You could. Still doesn’t mean I’ll leave.” Honest to God, one of those fuckers comes after me to leave, they’d better be prepared.

“Fine, but you must stay over by the window and no matter what you hear, you stay put. If you can’t do this, then I’ll have you removed by force if necessary.” I give no reaction as he exits the room to get the nurses to finally get this fucking tube out of her mouth. Now to just hope she breathes on her own. At least she has a shot, my mother didn’t.

Ten minutes later, it’s taking all the restraint I have to stay near the wall, out of the way as the doctor removes the breathing tube. I can hear the bile sloshing and gurgling as the tube eases from her esophagus, and with each pull the gagging noises grow louder, causing my own bile to churn. When they finally take it out, the gagging becomes worse, but it only lasts moments. The doctor stares down at her, waiting, as am I to see her breathe. Fuck, she has to breathe. Seconds feel like an eternity as both fear and hope tangle around me, trying to squeeze the life out of me.

Come on, baby. Breathe for me.

Seconds tick by, and I have no clue how many of them. All I know is my heart is thumping like I took drugs and sweat is gathering on my brow. Nerves rake through me, and pain slices through my gut every moment we stare at her body doing nothing but laying there. I can’t lose her—our time has just started.

Leah’s body jolts, arms swinging as she takes a deep intake of breath, then she exhales only to gasp repeatedly. The doctor’s shoulders instantly relax as he watches, mouthing numbers as he does. What he’s counting I have no clue.

Relief like no other hits me and finally, the air goes into my lungs. She’s breathing on her own. Thank you. Closing my eyes briefly, I look up to the heavens. Whatever is up there I’m grateful for this gift.

The doctor reaches over and grabs a tube, and I look down to see it’s attached to an oxygen machine. I can’t help myself, so I ask out of curiosity, “Why does she need that?” My mind instantly thinks the worst.

“Her lungs need clean oxygen so they can start to work properly again. It’s just precautionary,” he says, not looking at me, then he talks to the nurse. “Contact me immediately if the machines go off.” She nods as the doctor walks to the door. “I’m going to talk to her parents but everything looks good.” Then he leaves as the nurse pushes buttons and maneuvers different tools and tubes around.

Only then do I walk over to Leah. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe to see her gasping for breaths or choking every time she tries, but there’s nothing. Just steady even breathing. After the nurse leaves, I pull my chair back up to the side of her bed and grasp her hand gently kissing the top.

“You’re scaring the shit out of me, Leah, and I haven’t been scared in years.”

Her parents come in, and I reluctantly take a walk about the large circle that is the ICU with my hands in my pockets. If it weren’t for her parents I’d be next to her, but after the fifth lap, I head back in to see nothing has changed.

“Son, you really should go get some decent sleep,” Aaron starts on me again.

Giving my head a little shake, I argue, “I sleep just fine in the chair.”

“Stella is wiped out, and I’m taking her to get some rest. Will you call me…”

“If anything changes,” I fill in his sentence, one I’ve heard a dozen times before.

“Thanks.” Her parents leave. It’s just me, Leah, and a bunch of machines that make different noises. But I’ve learned which sounds are the bad ones and these aren’t. It’s almost like listening to my bike, knowing exactly what is wrong just by sound.

Pulling out her letters, I turn to the next one and begin to read to her.

“Hi Ty! I’m just kidding, Green.

Thank you. Again. It seems to be my motto with you. Yesterday was amazing and I’m not going to lie—I was so nervous, but you could probably tell. Thanks for not throwing that in my face. Spending time face to face was so much different than talking on the phone or writing these letters.

Not worse either. I just couldn’t settle my nerves with you. Strange because I know you better now than most people around me. It’s scary but great in the same sense. Your bike is amazing, and you are so taking me out for another ride soon. Being on the back and holding on to you was a freedom I’ve never experienced before. One that I could do over and over again until the end of time.

My lips still tingle from you. I don’t know what I was expecting because my nerves were eating away at my thought processes, but when your lips touched mine… Oh lord, I sound like a goober again. Sorry.”

“When you ended on that, I may have crinkled the paper in my hand.” A small smile tips my lip at the memories.

Folding the letter up, I grasp her hand again, clutching it and willing her to wake up, but she doesn’t. That’s how I fall asleep, hoping that when I wake up I’ll see her eyes.

My hands move and I jolt awake, lifting my head to look at Leah. Her eyes are still closed, but her hand is twitching.

“Leah, can you hear me in there? I need you to come back to me, baby. I need to see those beautiful brown eyes of yours.” She doesn’t open them, but her body gives another twitch. Remnants of the tape used to hold in the breathing tube are still on her face. I try to wipe it away, but it doesn’t budge, so I make a mental note to get some alcohol wipes to remove it.

“My bike’s just waiting for you to get on the back again. I’m waiting for you to wrap those beautiful arms around me and press your chest into my back. We can take all the backroads and pick places to stay along the way. No destination in mind, just ridin’ and feelin’ carefree.” Her hand shifts again in mine. “Yeah, I know you want that. I do too.”

This is so different than when my mom was in here. My mom never got off the tube. Her body never twitched trying to come alive again. Her coloring was pale, nothing like Leah’s. It gives me hope that this will end differently. That this will not end up like my mother. I just hope that I’m right.

Loss is always hard on you. Sometimes worse than others, but the common denominator always is the hole the person left in your soul when they go. It’s a part they take with them and you never get back. You go on living, but there will always be a part of you missing. A part of you that will grieve for as long as you live. That is what it is with my mom. Forgetting isn’t an option. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I remember the exact way she looked in that hospital bed.

The exact way that the machines beeped to keep her alive. The smell in the air never leaves either. Each day that passes, those memories remain. It never gets easier. The only thing you have is hope. It’s all you can grasp onto, and I’m giving all of mine to the woman lying in the bed.