Since Annette was transferred from the emergency room to the intensive care unit, I have been waiting. At first, waiting to see if she would live. Then came the waiting for incremental improvements. Waiting for doctors. Waiting for nurses, Waiting for hospital administrators. Waiting for people from the insurance company. Waiting for family who are on their way.
The only real time you have to grieve is when you are alone. Most of the rest of the time you act as the information desk/coordinator for everything that is happening. People are asking how she is doing, how you are doing, what’s happening now, what’s happening next. It is exhausting.
The doctors come into the hospital room and try to explain things to you. No matter how hard you concentrate on listening to them, you always miss something because your child is in the room with all these wires and tubes weaving into and out of their body. And they never promise anything, they tell you what their expectations are. It is all so overwhelming.
You sit there bored, waiting for anything, hoping it isn’t bad, and scared when something does happen. Hours pass without you noticing. The hours turn into days and weeks. The good things don’t happen fast enough. The bad things never stop coming.
The daily ebb and flow of the day take on gigantic proportions. Every day feels like a battle. Every visit is exhausting. Then, at the same slow, maddening pace that seems to control your loved one’s healing, you begin to realize that this is going to be your life.