post #2

We are in the hospital amidst tissues and half-eaten carryout sandwiches, looking up from the waiting room couches (makeshift beds with scratchy cotton pillowcases) to see if a passing doctor or nurse will look at us. They never just casually glance in. I can't blame them.
Our own eyes are glazed and glossy, our cheeks red and our voices already are scratchy from tears and from holding back tears.
even her fingertips are swollen, her skin pale; blue with lymph and broken blood vessels.
The doctor takes her parents in the next room for a long time and we hear more weeping. We are sitting in the next room and holding hands. The radio is playing an Indian flute version of "Oh Christmas Tree." There is a football game on. Sometimes we stare at the screen, but we don't see it.
she is braindead
And we don't understand.
Their baby boy is brought up from ICU. Their newborn baby who she will never see. He takes their son in the room. Of course he doesn’t understand, but this is the only time he’ll ever see his mother. This was all so unexpected.

Robotically, we begin making phone calls – she’s braindead but alive (is that alive?). He absently squirts more visine in his eyes to wash away the red.

This was all so unexpected.