or—”
“Simon Parker, yes, he’s here. He’s up on the fourth floor. Would you like me to take you up there?”
I burst into tears, giant, shaking, sobbing tears. I couldn’t help it, my body simply let go all at once andeverything poured out of my eyeballs. “Yes. Please,” I managed as she handed me several tissues, and then finally the entire box.
“Simon Parker, he’s the photographer, right?”
“Yes!” I warbled, letting her lead me toward the elevator. “How did you know?”
“We only have so many American patients here at a time. The staff sort of knows who’s who pretty quick. Took a fall, right?”
“Yes! But I haven’t spoken to anyone since I landed. How is he? Do you know?” I asked, wiping my face as the elevator door opened on the fourth floor.
“I think you better talk to his doctor. Let me get you to his room, okay?” she said, ushering me toward the nurses’ station. Once there, she spoke quickly to the nurses, who pointed us toward a room. Not even bothering to thank her, I raced for the door, seeing his name on the chart just outside.
I prepared myself. I took a deep breath, steeled myself for whatever I might find inside, and opened the door. Strong, strong, strong. I’d be strong. Whatever I found on the other side of that door, I’d be strong for him.
Yeah. Not so much. Because when I saw Simon lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and machines and buttons and beeping, I almost came out of my skin. He lay there with bandages wrapped around his head—asleep? Unconscious? It didn’t matter, I was grateful for two things. One, that he wasn’t awake to see me fall apart against the doorjamb. When he did wake up—and therewas no “if,” only when—he’d find a pulled-together Caroline. And two, and more important, I was just . . . grateful. Grateful that I was here, now, with Simon. So I allowed myself two more minutes of losing it, said the quickest of thanks to whoever might be listening, then swept his hair back from his forehead, gently, barely touching his skin. His face was covered in tiny cuts and scrapes, butterfly bandages covering the deeper ones on his left cheekbone. Bruises bloomed here and there, and down along his neck and upper torso, surgical tape was wrapped tightly. I let my breath out in a slow shudder, then pressed the tiniest of kisses on a cheek that still smelled familiar even under all the antiseptic. Then I started looking for a nurse, a doctor, anyone with a stethoscope who could tell me what was going on.
I checked in at the nurses’ station. Benjamin had already made sure that I was cleared as a visitor, and that I could speak with the doctor as fully as he could. Since Benjamin retained power of attorney, he’d have to be the one to communicate with the hospital staff if any decisions needed to be made. I knew that any decision would be made with me, but my brain could only accommodate this thought in the abstract, not as something that would actually happen.
I spoke with the doctor who was caring for Simon, and he explained more about what Benjamin had told me. They were waiting for the results from his most recent MRI. Simon had been waking up intermittently all morning, and if I wanted to catch him when he wasawake, I could stay in his room, and the doctor would come get me when the results came in.
So I did just that. I checked in with Benjamin back home, plopped my bag down, sat in the chair next to Simon’s bed, and watched him sleep. I held his hand, marveling once more at the length of his fingers, the strength in his hand, the handsomeness of just his forearm. I ran my fingertips up and down his arm absently as I held his hand, watching as his eyelids fluttered a bit. Was he dreaming? What did he dream about? Likely the photo he was getting when he took his fall . . .
As I was thinking these random thoughts, I felt his hand squeeze mine, as it had done a thousand times before. I looked from our hands to his
“Simon Parker, yes, he’s here. He’s up on the fourth floor. Would you like me to take you up there?”
I burst into tears, giant, shaking, sobbing tears. I couldn’t help it, my body simply let go all at once andeverything poured out of my eyeballs. “Yes. Please,” I managed as she handed me several tissues, and then finally the entire box.
“Simon Parker, he’s the photographer, right?”
“Yes!” I warbled, letting her lead me toward the elevator. “How did you know?”
“We only have so many American patients here at a time. The staff sort of knows who’s who pretty quick. Took a fall, right?”
“Yes! But I haven’t spoken to anyone since I landed. How is he? Do you know?” I asked, wiping my face as the elevator door opened on the fourth floor.
“I think you better talk to his doctor. Let me get you to his room, okay?” she said, ushering me toward the nurses’ station. Once there, she spoke quickly to the nurses, who pointed us toward a room. Not even bothering to thank her, I raced for the door, seeing his name on the chart just outside.
I prepared myself. I took a deep breath, steeled myself for whatever I might find inside, and opened the door. Strong, strong, strong. I’d be strong. Whatever I found on the other side of that door, I’d be strong for him.
Yeah. Not so much. Because when I saw Simon lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and machines and buttons and beeping, I almost came out of my skin. He lay there with bandages wrapped around his head—asleep? Unconscious? It didn’t matter, I was grateful for two things. One, that he wasn’t awake to see me fall apart against the doorjamb. When he did wake up—and therewas no “if,” only when—he’d find a pulled-together Caroline. And two, and more important, I was just . . . grateful. Grateful that I was here, now, with Simon. So I allowed myself two more minutes of losing it, said the quickest of thanks to whoever might be listening, then swept his hair back from his forehead, gently, barely touching his skin. His face was covered in tiny cuts and scrapes, butterfly bandages covering the deeper ones on his left cheekbone. Bruises bloomed here and there, and down along his neck and upper torso, surgical tape was wrapped tightly. I let my breath out in a slow shudder, then pressed the tiniest of kisses on a cheek that still smelled familiar even under all the antiseptic. Then I started looking for a nurse, a doctor, anyone with a stethoscope who could tell me what was going on.
I checked in at the nurses’ station. Benjamin had already made sure that I was cleared as a visitor, and that I could speak with the doctor as fully as he could. Since Benjamin retained power of attorney, he’d have to be the one to communicate with the hospital staff if any decisions needed to be made. I knew that any decision would be made with me, but my brain could only accommodate this thought in the abstract, not as something that would actually happen.
I spoke with the doctor who was caring for Simon, and he explained more about what Benjamin had told me. They were waiting for the results from his most recent MRI. Simon had been waking up intermittently all morning, and if I wanted to catch him when he wasawake, I could stay in his room, and the doctor would come get me when the results came in.
So I did just that. I checked in with Benjamin back home, plopped my bag down, sat in the chair next to Simon’s bed, and watched him sleep. I held his hand, marveling once more at the length of his fingers, the strength in his hand, the handsomeness of just his forearm. I ran my fingertips up and down his arm absently as I held his hand, watching as his eyelids fluttered a bit. Was he dreaming? What did he dream about? Likely the photo he was getting when he took his fall . . .
As I was thinking these random thoughts, I felt his hand squeeze mine, as it had done a thousand times before. I looked from our hands to his
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