HURRY IF YOU CAN

This decision is forever mine.

She makes all the decisions.

What is good for me. What is good for her. The kids, too. Bedtime, study time, church time. Free time. She is a Swiss watch. What a splendid piece of jewelry, heavy on my wrist, her face is.

So, what am I going to do now? There is no plug to pull, and it's not as if I can kick the cord out of the wall. She’s not a floor lamp or a toaster on the fritz.

I should call the kids. Ted's overseas, and Ginny will need to make the drive from Blacksburg. I have nothing to offer them except hurry if you can. I run my lines as if rehearsing for a high school play. I am a terrible actor in a jaundiced spotlight.

Not promising the diagnosis. Really, there’s nowhere to go from here. I repeat the words again and again, and I cry.

There is no pleading with the doctor’s back as he exits, and I fret.

Vegetative state. He said that. And left.

She hated vegetables—already, my recollections are past tense. But she made the kids eat them. They never asked any questions, though. They knew better. Hell, even I would eat my lima beans if she told me to. Her stare a period on words unsaid.

I contemplate a favorite dress, flowers, and a little scripture, then rupture. My guts hit the cold tile. The orderlies have seen this play out before. A macabre waltz with a mop will soon ensue.

I will stay and hold her hand, I decide, after rinsing out my mouth.

She will tell me what to do next.