heat.
scorching, blowing, relentless, dangerous, "black flag" heat.
ride into town in the heat for "Routine Procedure". his name is called. books and board games in the lobby with the boys.
"everything went fine".
he reappears, a little shaky. he leaves the elevator, not too steady on his feet. we approach the valet. he's feeling weak. cars idle in the queue. angry engines burn fossil fuels, adding stench and fumes to the miserable heat.
i grab a wheelchair, roll it to him. he sits slowly. we will retreat from the heat. then, a sudden straightening of the limbs. head falls back.
is he stretching?
call his name. CALL his name. YELL.
"HELP! NOW!"
no one comes.
CAN
NOT
BE
HAPPENING.
valet stumbles toward us, past us, heads toward the volunteer sitting at the desk. they confer. i yell.
i lift his head, it wobbles in my hands. call his name. eyes are rolled half back, glazed. rapid, shallow breathing. shock. my hand on his heart. pumping, ok. call his name. boys cry.
i recognize that shallow, fast paced breathing. that was her breath before i breathed into her. i saw her eyes not seeing mine, before the lights came and the sirens screamed. that was the day she left.
YELL for help. hold his head call his name.
crying boys.
"is daddy going to die, momma?"
"NO. JUST PRAY, PRAY, PRAY."
"then why are you crying, momma?"
"JUST PRAY."
yell for help. call his name.
breathing stops. eyes are white. head is limp. my hand on his heart - still. that sucking out of the tide as the tsunami looms.
racing thoughts. how do i perform cpr if he's in a wheelchair? how do i protect his skull when i yank him from the chair by his legs? who will come? how can i stop this? can't watch the boys. stay away from the door and the angry engines spewing heat. thoughts are spinning like an out of control ferris wheel, too fast to get off, too fast to stay on. can't say it, can only think it.
can't pray, can't slow the thoughts long enough to articulate. but i feel Him there with me...
and an angel browsing in the gift shop hears my cries.
"is daddy going to die, momma?"
"NO. JUST PRAY."
"i can't."
"TALK TO GOD. JUST DO IT IN YOUR HEART."
sudden gasp as drowning swimmer comes up for air, confused, groggy, but breathing. my hands are still on his head, but he holds it up now. his heart is pumping again. my face on his. hot tears. cold sweat.
the angel is beside me now. she points me to the ER. walks with us. someone pushes the wheelchair. the angel? the wife? it rolls. the boys cry. i quiver, shake uncontrollably. she is the calm I CAN NOT BE. she graciously takes the boys - books, pizza, talking, listening, encouraging, all far away from the tears and panic.
new frustration. mute and dumb girl behind the glass, numb to my pain. i must "insist". loudly. again. and again.
INSISTENCE WINS.
triage is begun. doctor appears. "vasovagel" - not an explanation, merely a title for something not really understood. his re-assurances. my reluctance.
seek out the angelkeeper of my children. i see their questioning faces. i hear her speak words of encouragement. boys take turns pushing wheelchair. useless valet.
lost keys. found keys. relentless heat. i wait and bake in the queue. our turn. we load 2 boys, a husband and a wife into vehicle. leave our angel standing on the sidewalk. the tsunami dissipates. we pull away. not a ripple remains.
comforting words from a friend over the phone.
home.
we talk. he says he's thankful for the wake up call.
now he sleeps and i watch, gently put my hand on his heart...
and i am just thankful.
