The first night.

I was too upset to be tired. I couldn’t come to grips with what had happened. Again, my mind ran wild with my thoughts. Why him? Where is he? Is he in Heaven? Is he ok? Did he know that I loved him? Did he know how much he meant to me? Did I make him happy? Did I do everything right? Was he happy? Did he know how much I’d miss him? These were all the questions that were driving me crazy. I hope that I treated him well. I hope that I made him happy. I hope that I was everything that he could have ever wanted. I hope that I made him as happy as he made me…
The guilt was overwhelming. I felt guilty for living. I felt guilty for taking every breath that I took. Every little beat of my heart. Everything- Every. Little. Thing. My brain was running on overdrive, and I couldn’t just ‘relax’. I tossed and turned for many hours, flipping my pillow over each time. Every time I shuffled my head across the pillow to get comfortable, I could feel the cold parts where my tears had soaked through the pillow case.

I rubbed the tears from my eyes, and then rubbed my hands over my face as I stretched out my body. It was when I did this, that I was completely mortified. I could smell that ‘hospital smell’. I sat up straight away, and picked up my hair from over my shoulders  and held it under my nose. Hospital smell. I picked up my pillow, and brought it up to my face. Hospital smell. I threw the covers off of me, and turned the light on.

I picked up the clothes that I’d worn to the hospital and bundled them into a pile. I carried them outside, and threw them into the bin. I never wanted to see them again. I walked back into my bedroom, and ripped the sheets from my bed, along with my quilt and pillow cases, and threw them all into the laundry. I knew what I was doing- getting rid of that hospital smell.

Once my bed was all undone, I had a shower. I’m not sure how long I was in there for, but it would have been a while. I washed my hair 3 times with 3 different shampoos and conditioners. I washed myself with body wash and soap, several times. Looking back, I’m sure that most of it was unnecessary but I felt the need to do it anyway. I wanted any trace of the hospital smell gone. I figured a concoction of anything and everything should do the trick.

I didn’t bother making my bed. I just threw on some extra warm pyjamas and threw myself down on my bed like a rag doll. I didn’t bother to look to at the time. I didn’t want to know how long I’d been awake for and how long my mind had been annoying me for.

Somehow through the morning I managed to get some sleep. It wasn’t a long sleep or a good sleep, but it was something small that my body needed.  When I woke up, my initial thought was “wow that was a terrible dream”. I rolled over and saw that my bed was a mess. No sheets, no quilt, no pillow case. Then something else clicked. I had a shower. My towel was thrown on the floor. I dropped my hand down the side of my bed, where I felt around on the floor for my phone. I saw that the little indicator light was flashing, so I knew that I had a message or two. Wrong. 30 something messages, and 15 or so missed calls. I immediately dropped my phone. Yep. It hit me. It wasn’t a dream at all. I had just woken up to my new, aching reality.

The long drive home.

My parents picked me up from the hospital. I knew they didn’t know what to say, and neither did I. Those two little words made another appearance when they wrapped their arms around me. I was surprised that I still had any tears left to cry.

A cold breeze greeted me as the hospital doors opened. The clean air was amazing, and much different to the ‘hospital smell’ which I longed to forget. I sat in the back seat of the car, and buckled myself in. The silence was deafening. My parents picked up on the awkwardness and fiddled around with the radio to try and find something to listen to. I appreciated the fact that my mother kept changing the station if a love song or a sad song was playing.

I sat with my head resting against the window the entire way home, looking at the colours of the headlights fly by. The further we got away from the hospital, the worse I felt. I was screaming to myself in my head saying “TURN AROUND, TURN AROUND, I WANT TO GO BACK!!!”. I knew that mentioning it would only make things more painful. And ultimately, I knew there would be no point… as much as it hurt.

Occasionally when I looked up at the rear view mirror, I’d catch my father’s eyes meeting with mine. As soon as our eyes met, he’d look away. I didn’t blame him. I’d hate to think what he would have been looking at. Not a single word was said for the entire trip home, between anyone.

I don’t remember walking from the car to my bedroom, but somehow I made it there. I called out to my parents and said goodnight, and closed my bedroom door. There was no such thing as sleep. There was no such thing as tiredness or lethargy. There was nothing. Numbness perhaps, and not much else.

I passed the time by re-reading text messages that he’d sent me, and going through some photos on my phone. It didn’t take long to regret that decision. My phone was constantly buzzing with messages, and missed calls. I only replied to one person, who was in contact with me throughout the entire ordeal. I left her in charge of contacting everyone who needed to know what had happened.  It was one less thing that I had to think about.

A few hours had passed, and it was about 4am. I’d not eaten anything, or had anything to drink since 1pm of the previous day. I stumbled out of my bed to the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of water. I think I managed to swallow a mouthful, if that. I saw that the light was on outside, and as I peeked through the curtains, I was surprised at what I saw. My parents were sitting outside with their arms around each other. Even more surprising, my father was smoking cigarettes. Something he’d given up years ago. I decided to let them be.

They say a picture paints a thousand words. As I walked down the hallway back to my room, I wandered what the look on my face must say. I could summarise it with one word. Hollow. From that moment on, I knew I did not like the person I was becoming.

Two little words… (part two)

It was a hard thing to do. It was a few little steps that I longed to take, but at the same time, I wanted to hang back for as long as I could. Only to avoid the inevitable. I wanted to see him so desperately. But I didn’t want to see him in that state. I knew it would hurt, but I never knew just how much. I understood that he was gone. But seeing it… it would be different.  Hearing bad news is one thing- Seeing it for yourself is certainly another.

I followed behind his family and I tried to find something else in the room to focus on, trying to avoid what I knew I’d see soon enough.  After a few minutes, we came closer and stood around him where we each had our own little space. With his parents on one side, and his brother and I on the other, we all took a seat. There were moments of silence. There were tears- and plenty of them. It was hard to believe what we were seeing right in front of us.

I tried to think about what he would want. I didn’t think that he’d like to see us scared of him, and not wanting to get close. With that in mind, I took his hand and held it between the two of mine. His skin was still warm. I would have sold my soul just to have him squeeze my hand back. To look at him, and see his eyes open. I would have given anything. I wanted nothing more than for him to sit up, and talk to us. Explain that somehow, there had been a mistake, and that this was all just a dream. Much to my disappointment, nothing happened.

When I wanted to step out for a breather his brother would hold his hand, and when I’d return, we’d swap again. It was a system that needed no explaining- It just came naturally. We both gave each other enough time and space to have our moments. Moments of which, were held with the utmost respect.

We all took it in turns, stepping aside and letting each other have some time alone with him. After a few rounds of that, his family stepped outside and I knew that it was my time to say my goodbyes alone. I was lost for words. I tucked my chair in closer, and still held his hand in mine. I told him so many things. I told him that I loved him, and I would have said that countless times. I thanked him for the wonderful years that we shared together. I praised him for making me feel the way that he did. He was my everything- and I made sure I said all that I wanted.

A considerable amount of time had passed, and it was now time for me to leave, and let his family say goodbye to him. With that in mind, I held him in my arms one last time. I told him that I loved him one more time. I ran my fingers through his hair for the last time. I leaned over him and gave him our very last kiss. I never said goodbye.
I said “I love you” and left it at that. It was too early to say goodbye. I walked out of that room still as numb as I was when I had entered.

Two little words… (part one)

I knew that a lot of time had passed since I’d seen the surgeon last. I knew because I didn’t take my eyes off of the clock. It was one of those situations where no matter where I looked; I’d be met with people’s equally as concerned and saddened faces. Everyone that was there was there for the same reason.  They wanted answers, and they wanted to know that their loved ones were alright. Eventually, after a long wait, the surgeon made an appearance. As soon as I made eye contact with him, I knew what he was going to say. I think without even saying it, he could tell that I already knew, too.

Two little words was all it took. Two little words that broke my heart. Two little words that changed my life forever.

“I’m sorry”

The thoughts that ran through my head at that moment were unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
I felt as though I was drowning. I was drowning in sadness, anger, frustration and disbelief. The emotional pain that I felt was more intense than any physical pain that I’d experienced in my 25 years of life. There were literally no words for how much it hurt. It was incomparable.

I immediately felt ill and excused myself as I ran to the bathroom. No sooner had I pushed the door open and I had already laid my fist into the nearest wall. The anger that consumed me at that moment was toxic and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I decided that punching the closest thing to me was a good idea. I remember looking down at my hand and seeing how much it was shaking, and watching the graze appear across my knuckles.  It hurt but it didn’t bother me. In a weird sort of way, it was warmly welcomed, as it created a brief distraction from the real pain that I was feeling.

After I had a good scream, yelled a little, and managed to stop crying for just a minute, I made my way back to the room where I was once again with his family. We managed to splutter out a ‘thank you’ to the surgeon, and the surgical team who tried their very best to save his life. I know that they worked tirelessly and did all they could. There were no bad feelings towards them, whatsoever.

We walked down the hallway with the surgeon, until we came to a point where a curtain was drawn shut. He stepped aside and told us to take our time saying goodbye.

It was then that I realised that I would never again hear his voice. I knew that I would never again be held in his arms. I knew that there would be no more beautiful memories made. I knew that the journey that he and I had shared, was over. There was no more ‘us’. There was no more him.There was quite literally nothing else.

I knew that as soon as I walked behind that curtain, I would never be the same again.