The Hospital

Waiting for Lee to make up his mind felt like keeping watch over a coma patient. 

Every little bit of attention he paid me was like a stirring of fingers, the flutter of eyelashes. Any moment now he would come awake from this long sleep, see my face, and say my name. In one bright moment of thrilling recollection he would remember that he loved me. 

I poured over pages of scripture ever morning, and at night I prayed to God as fervently as I knew how. Maybe Jesus would have mercy on me, and help save my marriage. I prayed for Lee’s heart to soften. I asked for angels to visit his bedside. I wanted Lee to dream dreams or see visions, anything to have a mighty change of mind. I wanted miracles. 

Surely He has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. 

I visited the Redlands Temple on Tuesday nights. Lee’s name went on the altar every time and we would gather round for Lee, pray out loud for Lee, beg for divine intersession in behalf of all God’s lost and ailing souls. Afterwards I would sit in the beautiful rooms for hours, desperate for comfort, straining to hear God’s voice. 

Did Jesus really know what it was like to fall in love? 

All I heard in the still silence was the sound of my own fear. What if Lee chose to divorce? What if I ended up alone, old and washed-up? Unwanted. Unloved. 

Lee called me one night just to chat. He asked if I thought my parents hated him. 

No, I said. They’ve done nothing but show concern for us since this whole thing started. They would really like to see us work it out. My mom is a little surprised you haven’t shown up on the doorstep yet.

 

He laughed at that. Did you think I would come? Did her tell her I would?

I paused, an old familiar sadness pinching at the back of my throat as I struggled for words. 

No. She thought you might, but I told her no. I knew you wouldn’t come. 

I could almost picture Lee nodding his head on the other end, not in resignation, but in matter-of-fact acceptance of the way things were. Lee preferred to view his own actions as phenomena outside the realm of his control. 

People don’t change, he would tell me. They are the way they are.

 

The next night my stepdad grilled steaks on the patio, and we ate our dinner by the pool where the light was warm and the breeze cool. My toes were bare on the pavement and it felt good to dip them in the water. I was wearing my brown and white sun dress. 

I remember washing the dishes afterwards. There was a small feeling in my chest, something tight and painful like the poke from a thumb tack. I ignored it for a while, thinking that maybe my stomach was just trying to settle. I wiped down the counters and put the leftovers in the refrigerator. By the time I retired to my room the pain was exploding in sharp, pulsing stabs. It felt like my lungs were contracting. I couldn’t breathe, and somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I was hyperventilating. In my panic I ran to the family computer where my stepdad was typing. 

I think something’s wrong with my heart, Steve. I need help. 

Steve had been a paramedic once upon a time. He took one look at me and dialed 911. 

I ended up at the local community hospital in Wildomar. The nurse stripped off my dress and asked if I had a religious preference. Mormon, I told her. LDS. She wanted my name, my birthdate. She filled out the forms for me because my hands were shaking too much. I still couldn’t draw a proper breath. 

She asked if I was married, and I answered her with tears I didn’t even know I was holding. 

Yeah. 

But my husband isn’t here, I cried, nearly choking with the shame of saying it out loud. 

It was like hearing the awful truth for the very first time. 

I’m afraid, in terrible pain, and my husband isn’t here.