When Waiting Is Enough

I’ve spent the last week in an ICU waiting room.

A girl, a 23 year old girl.

 

Technically a woman, I know.  But you get to a point when anyone younger than you is a girl or boy.  I’m there.

 

She’s on life support.  She’s been asleep for 7 days.  But slowly, very very slowly, showing signs of progress.

I know this girl.  Not well.  But I know her.  Before this I knew her brother well.  I knew her mother a little.  I’d met her father once.  Now I know them all.  Aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends.  And I love them.  With all my heart.

 I went the first day to stay for a little while and left after 10 hours.  Because I wanted to do something.  Anything.  Anything to make them feel just a little bit better.  And the only thing I could do…  Was wait.

It wasn’t enough, is still not enough.  But it’s all that I can do.   

The waiting room for an intensive care unit is an odd place, the most perfectly awful mixture of hope and anxiety.

 

There was another family the first day.  And the second day.  But not the third.  The first day for the family I know was difficult.  But the second day was better.  And the next day was better.  And as aunts and uncles and friends arrived, they buoyed each other in the way that families are supposed to. 

They are strong.  And brave.  And beautiful. 

 

As the girl I know grew a little stronger, the man the other family knew grew weaker.

As we began to smile and laugh and talk too loud and relax a little, the other family grew more fragile.

Sometimes I wanted to tell them we were sorry.  But we weren’t sorry.  Sorry for their suffering, yes.  But not sorry for our hope. 

The people I knew, they needed to laugh and love and wear their bravery right on their sleeve. 

They needed their energy to say, “Not today universe.  And not tomorrow.  And not for a long long time.  You don’t scare us.  She’s ours.  And we’re not finished with her yet.”

And on the third day, the man they knew ended his fight.

And on the third day, the girl I know showed us hers was not over.

On the third day they were leaving as I arrived, huddled together in the hall, a nurse on her knees talking to the matriarch of the family, slumped in a wheelchair.  Patting her hand.  My eyes met those of one of the others, a daughter I assume.  I wanted to tell her how sorry I was.  I wanted to hug her.  I wanted to hold her hand.  You develop this unspoken relationship with the other people in the room.  I didn’t say or do any of those things.  But she knew.  And her eyes thanked me.  And told me, it’s ok.  We’re going to be ok.  And they are.

And so is the family I know.

 

The girl is getting stronger every day.

 

And so are the people who love her.

 

And when she wakes up they have so much to tell her about what happened while she was sleeping.

Like the movie.

But better.

 

Until then

They wait.

And I wait.

With them.

 

For them.

 

For her.

 

Because it’s not enough.

 

But it’s all I can do.