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I remember wondering if we were actually having this surreal discussion, two best friends discussing mercy-killing each other if the unthinkable occurred. It was a possibility, albeit a remote one. Just having the conversation unnerved me.
His pale blue eyes were sober when I hugged him. “I hope it never comes to that.”
He kissed my head and held me tight. “Me too, Baby Girl. Me too.”
That conversation haunts me the entire flight.
I owe Mark my life, but if it comes down to it, am I strong enough to honor his wishes? Not just let them turn off the machines if he’s unable to survive without them – as painful as that would be, I know I could make that call. But what if his flesh survives and his essence is gone? What if his body is merely a vessel for a vacant mind, the thing we’d both feared most? Am I strong enough to do as he asked? Am I strong enough to help him die?
By the time the flight lands, I’m a wreck. His words play on an endless loop in my mind.
If my body hangs on, but I’m gone? I don’t want that.
There’s a difference between existing and living. If I’m merely existing, I’d rather die.
Head injuries are tricky beasts. I’ve seen soldiers’ heads wounded so badly, they’re missing a chunk of skull, yet many heal without long-term deficits. That open area of skull gave the swelling somewhere to go, avoiding further injury to delicate brain tissue. I’ve seen other soldiers’ heads bloodied and bruised, swollen like water balloons. They look so horrific immediately after the trauma that survival seems impossible. But despite their appearance, they may fully recover, because bleeding and swelling do far less damage outside a rigid skull.
Then there’s the third type of head injury, where soldiers look like they’re just sleeping. They don’t have external bruises or bleeding. They’ve suffered a whiplash-type injury, where the head slung forward, stopped sharply, and snapped back, though their head never struck anything.
But their brain did.
The brain doesn’t fully fill the skull; it’s surrounded by fluid. Much like a crash dummy striking an airbag, when the head whips forward, the front of the brain smashes into hard skull. When the head snaps back, the back of the brain slams into the back of the skull, creating two separate brain injuries. The same thing happens in shaken-baby syndrome. Innocent-looking head injuries are often the most deadly.
And I have no idea what type of head injury Mark has sustained.
There’s a difference between existing and living. If I’m merely existing, I’d rather die.
I swallow hard. I’m not strong enough for this.
I find an extended-stay hotel half a mile from the hospital, tossing my bags on the generic beige carpet of my room before racing to the sprawling brick complex. I pause at a desk and ask for Mark’s location, dodging people milling through identical vanilla corridors like rats in a maze. When I find the correct ICU, a blond nurse asks my name and ushers me into an empty waiting room. “Dr. Paxton will be in to speak with you shortly. Make yourself comfortable.”
She offers me coffee, but I'm too nauseous to drink anything. When she leaves, I perch on the edge of a chair, surveying my surroundings. The lights are low, with tissue boxes all around the room. Twelve tissue boxes, scattered around a room with only fifteen chairs.
I chew the inside of my lip. This isn’t a room for delivering good news. My stomach clenches, and the familiar bands tighten around my chest.
Not again.
I draw a deep breath and close my eyes, then take another, and another, and another, until finally a feeling of calm strength starts to spread through me.
I can do this.
I have to. I’m the only one he has.
There’s a quiet knock before a tall man in a white coat and a petite dark-haired nurse enter, closing the door behind them. My throat tightens.
Please let Mark be okay. Please.
The man has a runner’s build, long and lean, and close-cropped brown hair. He holds out his hand. He has elegant fingers, like a pianist. “I’m Dr. Paxton, one of the trauma surgeons, and this is Monica, one of our nurses. Are you Captain Chandler’s wife?” He takes a seat facing me. She chooses a chair to my right, angling her body toward me.
I shake my head. “He’s not married. I’m Charlie Emerson. Mark is my best friend. He’ll be coming home with me.”
His tone is gentle as he glosses over the situation, likely trying to avoid inciting panic by speaking in smooth generalities. “Mark has multiple severe injuries. It’s too soon to predict his prognosis with certainty, but his condition is critical.”
I raise a hand to stop him. “I spent eleven years as a battlefield medic. I’ve seen horrors most people can’t imagine. I need specifics. I can handle it.”
Dr. Paxton’s dark eyes study me carefully. Then he unearths a tablet from his voluminous lab coat and treats me as a colleague. He opens full-color photos of Mark’s injuries, zooming in to show the full extent of them in horribly graphic detail. He shares Mark’s labs, CT scans, X-rays, medication lists, and vital signs. The sheer volume of data leaves my mind whirling like a tornado. Of everything he says, his most terrifying words are “possible permanent brain damage”. I know how to fix Mark’s other injuries. There are protocols to follow, specific steps to take. But with brain injuries, all you can do is wait.
Patience is a virtue, but it isn’t one of mine.
