living on the edge of loss

8/6/2019 Living on the Edge of Loss

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Living on the Edge of Loss

An Old Soldier¶s Wife

He¶d been gone from home less than twenty-four hours when a phone that

seldom rang before dawn startled her. He was in a small hospital not far from hishunting cabin in the Pennsylvania mountains. She packed a small bag and set out on a

two hundred mile drive punctuated by thirty years of memories.So long on the sidelines of his military life, the fears that came with his

hospitalization were the same fears with which she¶d always lived. Still, there was no practicing for this eventuality and she found herself at a loss.

In the first hour, she tried to focus on the drive. When he was in danger half aworld away, she¶d been able to do that«focus her attention on what needed doing. But

now, all she could make herself do was remember the few genuine moments they¶dshared during his years on active duty.

Her brain simply refused to allow her to continue to defer a truth she¶d long ago

learned. That he could be taken from her before they¶d had a chance to« To what shewondered. To what?To live a normal nine-to-five life.To live beyond the threat of separation? She shook herself away from the futility of the ³what ifs .

It was mid afternoon when she crossed into Pennsylvania and almost six o¶clock

before she settled into a chair next to his bed. Unconscious, he could be sleeping, shethought. Later, she talked with his doctors, then spent that evening and night at his side.

At dawn, to regain her balance, she wandered outside, eased down onto a bench

and concentrated on the Pennsylvania countryside. The small hospital was set backedup against the soothing green of a mountain. Not a real mountain she thought. There

were no real mountains in Pennsylvania; she¶d seen real mountains. When he¶d beenstationed in Africa, in India, in«.. All those places that had become so much a part of

her, so familiar to her, were suddenly far away²trivial when measured against the hereand now.

When his condition remained unchanged for a week, she found a small

apartment and, not for the first time in her life as a military wife, set up housekeeping ina new place. If she could concentrate on the day-to-day details, she¶d work up to

dealing with the larger issues of his injury. Much of the effort was wasted. It wasdifficult for her to keep her thoughts centered.

To distract herself from useless worry, she joined the volunteers at the hospital.

This certainly wasn¶t the first time she¶d found work to divert her, to give her some purpose other than waiting. Work was how she¶d always survived when his life had been in jeopardy. When he¶d been in those two plane crashes and was once held

hostage in Southeast Asia; she¶d had their children to concentrate on. But this time, thefirst time she was present to watch his struggle, was different. It should have been

easier, right there in the hospital, having minute to minute details, but it wasn¶t.

For three weeks she made the daily trip to the little hospital, and as a volunteer,made the rounds offering comfort to others. And she waited. Some nights she stayed at



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his bedside. On others, she returned to the apartment and, exhausted, crept into asleepless bed.

A thunderclap had rattled the walls a little after five this morning«just before

the phone rang. She didn¶t recognize the voice, only the words. Hematoma.Cerebral pressure. Come. Hurry.

The fifteen-minute drive through the early dawn drizzle seemed to take years.

Delayed by traffic, her mind wandered. She remembered his expression the first timehe¶d told her they were going to be separated for the next several months. Back then,

they¶d been married less than two months; he¶d done his best to soften the blow. Still,he delivered the message with an implied request for her to remember where his first

duty lay.

So many memories. She smiled through the spattering raindrops recalling hison-going disrespect for false authority and his own rise to hold that authority. Injustice,

even in far off places fired the anger of this quiet man she¶d married. His commitment

to somehow do his part to save the world hadn¶t faded over the years. She saw hissmile at each homecoming, his eyes always capturing hers across a field of other welcoming wives. And always his understanding touch when she¶d remind him that

time didn¶t matter, she would always wait, and she would always be there.

³How can I do this without him.´ She begged the slapping windshield wipers.She couldn¶t cry. She wouldn¶t no matter how grave his circumstances. Through every

danger he¶d endured, she never had. Never«until it was over, when she¶d be told thathe was safe. Of course she cried then, often for days. Was this time really any different

she wondered. No, it wasn¶t. If«no«she corrected herself, not if«when he awoke,he mustn¶t see that she¶d ever lost hope. Of all the things that sustained her in their

years of separation and danger, his constant request was; that she be strong. That shenever lose hope.

This rainy morning was the first real rain in the three weeks she'd been coming

to his room. In that time, hope had became a small word with diminishing returns. Asmuch as she feared for his life, she feared the loss of hope, feared that the time would

come when it scarcely existed at all; and next to losing him, he¶d taught her to dread theloss of hope.

After this morning¶s early phone call, and the rainy drive, she felt her strengthand her emotional restraint falling away. Down the harshly lit hospital halls and into his

room she held her breath.

He was gone. Of course he is; she tweaked her self-control, he¶s in surgery.She must wait. The empty room was his room. It¶s dull walls reflected the gray sky. If she had turned on the lights, their harshness would have accented the empty bed, the

tumbled sheets and the unneeded slippers. Trivial things to anyone else, but in hisempty room, more meaningful to her than an audible shout.

Outside the window, rain fell in drops so soft and fine that only the slate sky and

the damp pavement whispered of them. Trees glistened under their cleansing sheenwhile branches bowed and turned in a breeze so gentle it added no sound to the quiet

spatter.



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Floundering in her attempt to deny the undeniable, she clung to every detail of the rain-streaked window. Concentrating on it, she gained a moment¶s refuge from the

ache. As long as she studied the rain, she didn¶t have to look at the empty bed. Shecould think, pretend, hope that he would be there again and that this morning¶s surgery

was a step toward recovery.Hope though had become intangible. But the window²the window was solid, a

thing she could touch, feel its chill and sense its dampness. In time, she dared to leavethe false sense of emotional safety that she drew from the fogged panes, from her

memories of him. With nothing to hold onto, she stood next to the empty bed, leaningagainst it for the strength and confidence he had always, even from a distance, been

there to give her.The few steps it had taken her to reach the side of the bed were the miles and

years they had traveled between his commitment to a peaceful world and the daily lifethey could have shared. They were the steps between hope and despair. What life

they¶d shared had been built between the deferred soft ache of longing and today¶s cold-fisted grip of reality. She reached out her hand laid it against the depression in the

pillow. The only sound in the room, ³Please,´ wrenched from her tight throat.

Wrapped in a dull silence that suited her thoughts, she waited for the doctor.She clung to the hope that this surgery would give back what, in her worst imaginings,she¶d always secretly known she could lose.

Counting this morning, he had been in a coma for twenty days. During all those

afternoon visiting hours, she had rattled on in awkward one-sided conversation aboutthe tiny apartment she¶d found, the hunting that waited for him up on the mountainside

and his next duty assignment. In the small whispered moments when she struggled withhonesty, she hopefully spoke of retirement.

The doctors said he could hear and in her own way she pretended to believe.While other people were around, while the sun shined, while she busied herself with

volunteer work at the hospital, while she waited, she believed too. Believed that heknew she was there for him, believed that, for all that his age was against him, he

would, as he always had, come back to her. Yet, alone, after visiting hours, staring intothe darkness over her own bed, there, wanting to believe in nothing more than his

recovery, believing became a struggle.In the beginning they¶d told her that head injuries were common in these kinds

of collisions. They were unable to offer a prognosis without qualifying it withµpossibly¶ or µmaybe¶ or µsometimes¶ tacked on. She scarcely paid attention to the

details she already knew« diffuse axonal injury occurred as a result of mechanicalshearing following deceleration« She only half heard them. They were quick to point

out that he was breathing on his own and was otherwise uninjured and stable. Nodding

understanding of their initial report, even back then, she knew the truth. But afraid to break the bubble of hope with her own doubts, she had floated through the days, chinup, eyes dry, wearing a painted smile of belief in the µpossibly¶, the µmaybe¶ and the

µsometimes¶.

Possibly, maybe and sometimes had converged this morning. And now shewaited, studying the rain that dripped off leaf tips and trickled down the windowpane.

He¶d risked his life more than once searching for ways to meet his obligation toduty. Risked it when, unknown to anyone else, he allowed himself to be exposed to

radiation. Risked it when he held a child dying of an unknown pathogen. Risked it to



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deliver freedom and hope to places where doctors and foreign aid didn¶t go. Risked itin hundreds of ways thousands of miles from home before a deer on a winding

Pennsylvania road accomplished what no pathogen, dictator or feeble aircraft had beenable to do. Stop him.

The early morning procedure to reduce the pressure on his brain came with no

guarantees. What in their lives ever had? More probablys and maybes, but she wasworn out and her hope that they could save him was fading.

Intensive care was a place of clicking machines, tubes, wires and patches.Hovering hospital staff and prowling doctors transferred implied motion to the man who

lay pale and immobile, a sheet drawn up to his chest. Familiar as she was with theequipment that surrounded him and the procedure he¶d undergone, seeing him like this

was something for which she could never have adequately prepared herself. Startled,she backed away from his side, her hand clinched over her mouth as if that would stop

the tears she had forbidden for weeks. The cold wall she leaned against offered nocomfort and the array of machines made no promise.

Certain that she would be asked to leave soon, she reached for his hand. Just

once again, before it was too late, she would tell him. Laying her face next to his, her lips touched his ear. The smell of surgical disinfectant, tape and hospital linens filledher nose. ³I love you,´ she whispered to him. The words were so simple to say, yet,

she had seldom spoken them when he hadn¶t reacted with embarrassment.

Odd things can take hold of desperate thoughts and what took hold of her thoughts was simple. As long as she held onto his hand, held onto him, he would

breathe, he would recover. She was absolutely convinced that only her grip and thosefew words whispered into his ear would save him and all the science since Newton

would not have persuaded her otherwise.The staff in intensive care allowed her to stay with him. In truth, they couldn¶t

have pried her away.

Back in his own room later that afternoon, he opened his eyes. For a fewmoments he stared at the ceiling. He heard rain click against the window, heard visitors

chatting with other patients. Not certain where he was or how he¶d come to be there, heclutched at the hand that fastened him to reality and listened to a familiar voice answer

his unasked questions.In his eyes, she watched for recognition. When he smiled at her, she smiled

back through an uncontrollable flood of tears.³Is this for me?´ With his fingers, he picked up a tear.

She smiled and shrugged. Of course it was.

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living on the edge of loss

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