At times of quiet, my mind wanders. It wanders places I wish it would not. It wanders to memories - visual remembrances I wish I could avoid - I wish I could escape.
Harper, lying motionless in a hospital bed. The click and clack, whooshing of a ventilator. A nurse nearby. Melissa asleep in a chair. A rustle - motion. I get up. I rush 4 feet to her side. I grab her hand, which was reaching for the tube placed firmly in her mouth and down her throat into her lungs. Her eyes open, briefly. I tell her I'm here. I tell her she'll be ok. Calm down. Everything's ok. Hold my hand.
My mind wanders.
Doctors and nurses around. 12 people in her ICU room. We don't know if it will work. Do you want us to try? I look at Melissa. We silently communicate. I nod yes. I verbalize, with ignorant tears in my eyes, "do it." We gather ourselves. We kiss her. We say we'll be right back. We leave the room, not knowing we will never to be in her living presence again.
My mind wanders.
We are in the "meditation room." The nurse comes in. "They are doing CPR." We collapse. We cry. Friends arrive. We pray.
My mind wanders.
I close my eyes and walk into the room. 12 people, or more, surround her bed. A flurry of motion. Up and down. Chest compressions. CPR being administered. Pain. Pressure. I can't watch. I grab Harper's nurse. I have to leave. I run.
My mind wanders.
My lips, against her cool forehead. Her eyes closed. Her nose, packed with gauze. She is already gone, though she lingers, holding me.
My mind wanders.
I sit, typing. Tears wet my cheek. I pause. I search for the words. They escape me.
And my mind wanders.
