I’M STARTLED AWAKE by the sound of heavy footsteps as Alex forces the door open. He looks menacing as he barrels over to my side of the bed. His hot, alcohol-laced breath bellows in my face.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
My husband reaches around and yanks me up by my long hair into a sitting position, his snarled face mere inches away from mine.
“You think you can just take off and leave me?”
I swallow hard as tears fill my eyes at both his tight grip on my head and his harsh tone.
“Alex, let me go! You’re hurting me!” I scream, hoping my voice will snap him out of his animalistic rage. “Stop!” I scream louder when he tells me to shut up.
“You’re nothing but a spoiled little bitch.” A spray of saliva shoots out of his mouth and lands on my cheeks.
My eyes search wildly and hopelessly for the man I married. For my Alex.
“What are you talking about?” I manage through sobs. My fingers slide across his unshaven face, caressing gently, anticipating the return of my husband. “I just needed a few days to myself.” I stammer, trying to assuage him. “Alex, please. Let me go.”
“I gave you everything. Everything! And for what? For you to leave me and take everything I’ve worked so hard for?”
Confusion blurs my mind. “Alex, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you.” I cry harder.
The hold on my hair loosens as he falls to his knees, his face resting on my lap while his lips move slowly. “All I ever wanted to do was to make you happy.”
I run my hands over his head, his hair slipping through my fingers.
“I am happy.” I am most of the time.
He shakes his head and mumbles a quick “no.”
“I’m lonely, Alex. I’m just lonely.”
He doesn’t reply.
With my husband passed out on my lap, I lie awake for hours and wonder how we got here. How did my seemingly happy marriage become so unhappy? When did his love for everything else replace his love for me?
***
I CRUMPLE THE note he left on the island and hurl it across the room before I break down into a fit of sobs.
“Happy fucking Anniversary to you too, Alex.”
My eyes are still red and puffy when I arrive at the hospital for my weekend shift. I lie and tell everyone I had a reaction to a new sunscreen.
“Isn’t today your anniversary?” Odessa strides into the lounge area to warm up her curry rice dish.
“Yep, sure is.” I reply nonchalantly.
Her big brown eyes open wide. “So what are you doing here? Why are you working?”
“I traded last weekend when I was in Florida.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re working on your anniversary.”
“Alex is racing.”
She tightens her lips into a hard line as if she’s trying to refrain from speaking. I know what she’s going to say and I don’t really need to hear it especially after the earful I got from my parents.
“How many years now?”
“Five.”
Odessa sits beside me. “You know, in some cultures, five is considered to be a lucky number.”
“I thought thirteen was the lucky number.” I stab my fork into the greens of my salad.
“When’s your birthday?”
“July 7th.”
“What year?”
“87.”
“See! You’re a five.”
“A five?”
“Your numbers 7, 7, 87.”
I toss a confused look in her direction as I take a sip of water.
“What’s seven plus seven?”
“Fourteen,” I answer skeptically.
“Okay and what’s eight plus seven?”
“Fifteen,” I sigh with annoyance.
“Drop the one and you have your number!”
Utterly bewildered, I ask, “What are you talking about?”
“See! You’re a five. Just like I said! This is going to be your lucky year. Good things await you. Mark my words…good things will happen.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes, trying to understand her rationale, but I can’t because it doesn’t make sense.
“Did you learn that in your Guyanese school?”
“No! I learned it in an astrology class in college.”
I laugh at my absurd friend. “Thank you.”
“For what?” She smiles knowingly.
“For taking my mind off the fact that I’m here on my wedding anniversary.”
“Awww! That’s what friends are for!”
“You are a good friend even though you tried to trick me into eating goat meat that one time. I still haven’t forgiven you!”
After sleeping for a few hours when I get home, I lounge by the pool, tend to my garden, tidy up the house and try my hand at a new recipe. I wave to the group of young fit stay at home moms who push their baby strollers and chat about reality television. I peruse the mail and leave it on the counter, separating Alex’s from mine. There’s an envelope with a return address label from an out of state attorney. I wonder who’s trying to sue A.P. Electrical now. Or maybe Alex has had to put a lien on a property for nonpayment.
I arrive at work early, carrying a large box of scrumptious pastries from Susie’s Sweets, a quaint French patisserie and a box of Joe from Dunkin’ Donuts.
“You’re going to have more junk in the trunk if you keep eating those cookies!” Odessa laughs as she shoves half an éclair into her mouth. “So good,” she moans.
I smirk and toss the other half at her. She gasps at the cream on her scrubs before she proceeds to lift her shirt and lick it off.
My mouth falls open in shock and it’s my turn to gasp.
“You know I can’t let it go to waste! Back in my country when I was just a little girl, I had to…”
Her voice trails off as Anita, a few other nurses and I make a mass exodus out of the room. We’ve all heard the stories about her childhood in Guyana.
I’ve still not heard from my husband. Truth be told, I’ve made no attempt to contact him either. Maybe we both need a few days apart.
Finding the second break room empty, I collapse onto the faux leather sofa to finish my “lunch” hour at two o’clock in the morning. I stare at the clock and listen to its rhythmic pattern. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. The deliberate movement of the second hand is comforting. It reminds me that life continues on every second of every day.
My neck tips to the side as his soft lips nip and kiss a small trail, his hands run up and down my arms gently and them with more force. His deep voice whispers sweet nothings into my ear and a shy smile tugs at my lips. “Say it again,” I plead quietly, turning my head to consider his bluish-green orbs. “I need you,” he repeats the words I love to hear.
“Karrie, wake up. C’mon! We need you.” Anita wakes me up with firm rubs to my arms. “Karrie, we need all hands on deck.”
I toss the small blanket onto the chair and stand as I wipe the sleep from my eyes. My legs feel weak and I’m slightly disoriented. My cheeks flush pink when I yawn, my dream still fresh on my mind. After shaking my head quickly, I comb my fingers through my hair, securing it back into a ponytail and follow her out. While the warmth of the blanket subsides, I notice the warmth and moisture between my legs remains.
Anita and I walk with hurried steps, following Odessa out through the sliding glass doors into the cool night air to wait for the arrival of the ambulance. I can hear the sirens blaring in the distance and when it arrives, the bright red and white lights flash brightly, reflecting off the doors and windows, casting a red glow on our faces.
“John Doe number one. Caucasian male. Mid-thirties. Severe head trauma. Single vehicle rollover. Ejected from vehicle. Found unresponsive upon arrival. BP is seventy over forty. Intubation started.”
Sam, one of the EMTs, barks out the status of the patient as the gurney is lowered and wheeled through the door. I hurry to his side and begin an analysis as Odessa and Anita attend to the second patient, John Doe number two, who is being brought in by another ambulance.
In that split second, all my personal feelings are set aside. I don’t think of this man as a man. I don’t think of the wife and children who might be worried about him. I don’t think about how horrible he must feel if he can feel anything at all. All I can think about is what I need to do to save his life. I’m a nurse; it’s what I’ve been trained to do.
There’s a flurry of controlled chaos in the usually quiet Emergency Department of St. Luke’s Hospital. Rooms are emptied, wheelchairs rolled into the hallway so our team has space to work. I lift the bar and use it to rush the gurney into the first available room. As I press the brake, securing the bed, my hand slips and grazes the man’s fingers. I glance down at the blood stains covering his left hand.
A single thought about how strong his hands are races to the forefront of my mind before my eyes follow the trail of his torn clothes and fall to his head completely covered in bloody gauze. I can only see a sliver of his eyes as he blinks slowly. When I feel movement against my hand once again, I look down and notice that he’s trying to reach for my fingers. Compassion wins as I take his hand in mine, squeezing it gently, reassuring him that he’s in good hands and we’ll do everything in our power to take care of him.
Dr. Stephens, the E.D. surgeon, makes another quick analysis of the situation and looks over at the heart monitor when the beeping decreases in frequency.
“Parker! What are you doing? Let’s go!”
I realize in that moment I’m stroking the man’s hand gently while everyone is rushing around me, each fulfilling their specific role in an attempt to save his life.
“We’ve got internal bleeding. We need to get him to the OR, stat.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Paula asks, glancing at me quickly with a pointed look. “You okay?”
I shake my head then nod, snapping myself out of a daze. “Yeah. I,” I stammer, “I don’t know what happened.”
When John Doe number one is wheeled out of the room and into surgery, Odessa orders me to help with John Doe number two who has sustained equally serious injuries.
“What’s the status?” I ask, stepping in closer to understand the situation.
“Single vehicle. Severe head trauma. Looks like he may have been wearing a restraint, but the force upon impact must’ve ripped it off. Look,” Dr. Lopez says and shakes his head as he points the man’s bruised chest. “They had to have been going at least a hundred to do this amount of damage.”
My eyes crawl upward until I reach the dirty, bloodied gauze covering his face. There is a clear indication of trauma and brain swelling based on the sheer size of this man’s head.
Minutes tick by as Dr. Lopez and our team work to save his life and stabilize him. Like John Doe number one, his blood pressure drops then his heart stills. After attempts to use the defibrillator and all other measures fail, Dr. Lopez forced his chest open with a deep incision. I hold my breath and cringe at the sound of the oscillating saw as it cuts through the breastbone.
“Karrie, come here.”
I look into the eyes of the doctor whom I respect and admire. A cold shiver runs through me because I don’t like what I see reflecting back at me.
“Give me your hand,” he orders.
I do as I am told.
“Just squeeze gently. Keep squeezing. Don’t stop until I tell you.”
My hand is carefully guided into the open chest cavity of this stranger.
“Do you feel it?” Dr. Lopez’s hand covers mine and demonstrates the concise pattern. Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
Dr. Lopez leans over and begins to search blindly yet skillfully throughout this man’s broken torso, attempting to locate the source of internal bleeding.
Never in my life have I been the sole source between life and death. My small hand, with its gentle compressions, preserves this man’s life.
As I keep his heart beating, my mouth goes dry. I haven’t got even enough moisture to lick my lips. My eyes stay focused on the task until I hear a single long beep spew from the machine.
“Found it!”
I pull my eyes away and look at the surgeon who now has both hands inside.
I don’t know if I quiver because of the long, constant and eerie sound or because Dr. Lopez yells in my ear, “Don’t stop the compressions. Get him back.”
Focus, Karrie, focus.
“Please don’t die. Please don’t die. C’mon John Doe number two. There’s a girl out there who needs you to live. Please don’t die.” My lips move silently as I whisper, pleading with God, willing the man to live.
I need him to live.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Slow but constant sounds resonate throughout the room as we all breathe a sigh of relief.
Dr. Lopez gives the order for immediate surgery, calls are made, the patient prepped quickly. He’s in critical condition so time is of the essence.
Once again, I’m left in the room as the second trauma team comes in and wheels the patient away. The unmistakable smell of blood and antiseptic permeates the small space.
I blink away the tears welling up in my eyes. Emotions have no place here. With robotic movements, I make my way over to the sink and rip the gloves from my hands, washing them thoroughly until the water runs from red to clear. When the last remnants of blood are gone, I curl my fingers and cup my palm to scoop lukewarm water into my parched mouth. I splash water onto my face and pat my skin dry with a stiff paper towel.
I lean against the counter with my palms pressed into the edge and stare at the mess on the floor as a maintenance worker comes in, rolling a mop bucket in front of him.
“Pretty bad, huh?” Felix asks, shoving the mop into the water before ringing it damp.
I nod solemnly, unable to find any words. I became a nurse to help people, to save lives, to care for the injured, to comfort them. I’ve seen the cloak of Death skulk in, entering a room to claim its victim. I’ve seen the merciful hand of God come down and breathe life into an otherwise lifeless form, sparing it, giving it new purpose. I’ve seen it all. But this…this was different. I was the angel of God keeping this man alive.
I was the one to breathe new life. I was the one who brought him back from the dead.
I was the fine line between life and death.
A flurry of activity mingled with Odessa’s voice beckons me into the hallway, searching for the source of her concern. I come face to face with her just as I hear Dr. Stephens declare the time of death of the first victim to arrive. Her normally dark skin is now ten shades lighter. Her hands fly up and grab my shoulders, effectively holding me back. Searching her wide, shocked eyes, I find my voice.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I screech as my hands cover hers. The slight swaying of her body suggests she needs to be supported. Gone for a moment is the tough as nails, blunt doctor’s assistant I call my friend replaced by a vulnerable woman.
Odessa’s hands cup my face, her thumbs moving across my cheeks slowly. My heart begins to pound in my chest at the sight of her. I plead for her to tell me what’s wrong.
“Karrie. Oh, Karrie my love.” Fat tears fill her brown eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? I’m confused by her words. “Sorry for what?”
With her hands on my face, she guides me until my back hits the wall.
“Odessa, please. What’s wrong?” Again I beg her to reveal the reason for her current state.
Worry and fear seep through her dark eyes. “John Doe number one.”
Still not having a clear understanding I respond, “Okay? What about him?”
“It’s Alex.” Her lip quivers as she speaks my husband’s name.
“What? What about him?” My veins turn to ice, pumping frozen liquid through my stiff body.
Odessa shakes her head quickly for several seconds as she fights the emotion threatening to erupt.
“He’s dead.” She bursts into tears.
I freeze. Her words desperately try to register in my brain but fail miserably.
“I don’t understand,” I mumble.
Odessa wraps her arms around my body tightly and pulls me close. “Honey, John Doe number one. It’s Alex. Your Alex.”
My husband. John Doe number one. A million thoughts compete with one another as I struggle to comprehend her words.
My Alex. My husband is John Doe number one. John Doe number one is dead. My Alex is dead. My heart plummets as my knees buckle. Supported only by Odessa’s arms, I muster the strength as I inhale sharply. My back stiffens and I pull out of her hold, my feet moving effortlessly and quickly to the room where Alex is. I know she’s wrong. It’s not Alex. He isn’t due home until later in the morning. It’s not him. It can’t be him.
“Karrie, don’t! Don’t go in there!” Her voice fades into nothing as I force the door open and stop, coming face to face with the deceased man.
The room is still, every machine now quiet, only the lingering stench of death remains.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” A faceless person whispers, the compassion in her voice clear.
I sweep my eyes from the top of this man’s head to his bare feet. His naked body left broken on the table, a clear indication of the futile attempts to save his life. Death declared victorious. The sparing hand of God was nowhere in sight.
“I’m so sorry.” A gentle hand rubs against my shoulder. “I’ll give you a minute.”
I smile. I don’t know why I smile as I pull my eyes away from my husband to look at her, but I do.
I turn back to look at the man lying still and lifeless.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be him.
Stepping closer, I raise my hands and allow them to hover over his covered face. I scan the familiar body, the tight planes of his abdomen, the strong biceps, the long muscular legs. He could be anyone, anyone at all, but he’s not.
I carefully lift his heavy right arm and look, praying fervently not to see what I know will be there.
At the sight of the etched vicious snake wrapped around the American flag, my stomach flips and rolls. I lean over and dry heave, but nothing comes out.
I am empty.
Completely empty.
I clamber across his body and press my cheek onto his forearm, wishing, needing to draw strength. An uncontrollable fit of sobs and hot tears flood my face as I curse at God. I demand that He return Alex to me. I grovel and beg mercifully that He take someone else instead.
God does not listen.
I hear nothing.
I feel nothing.
I see nothing.
After what feels like an eternity, I sense someone else has entered the room, invading my private time with my dead husband. The strength to lift my head is nowhere to be found. This person walks closer and stops behind me.
“Karrie, my love,” Odessa breathes quietly. She leans forward and angles her chest against my back, cradling me in her arms, whispering softly what I already know.
“He’s gone.”
I know this.
“We did everything we could to save him.” Her thumb glides back and forth over my hand.
I know this, too.
“I’m so sorry.”
This I also know.
Yet knowing that these medical professionals worked tirelessly to save my husband does not diminish the indescribable ache piercing my heart, searing it straight down the middle with a hot, fiery blade from hell.
“Alex, come back to me,” I cry softly, burying my head, resting my forehead against the ink on his skin. “Please come back to me.”
Odessa’s hold on my shoulder tightens and she draws me upward, away from the man I married five years earlier. The man who swept me off my feet in a whirlwind romance. The man who pledged his love and fidelity until death do us part.
Death has parted us.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” My friend guides me toward the door, my feet become cinder blocks, too heavy to even drag. “I’ve got you.” With her left arm around my back and the other tossed around her neck, Odessa carries me away from my husband.
The last of my tears have fallen. The ache in my chest has vanished. The tremor in my body has ceased.
I collapse onto the soft leather chair in Dr. Stephens’ office.
Completely numb.
Completely hopeless.
Completely alone.
Completely incomplete.
Staring out the window as the morning sun breaks through the purple sky, making promises of the day to come, I try to feel something. Anything at all, but I feel nothing.
My husband, Alexander Parker, is dead.