She wasn’t waking up. She looked beautiful – her skin was pink, her lips red, her hair was combed and in a pigtail, her water weight had come off, she was peaceful and calm. But she wasn’t waking up. It was hard to tell if her brain functions were working – tests weren’t conclusive. The only way to know if she was okay was to observe her if she would only wake up. It had been over a week since she had responded to some words and a tickle on her right foot. Since then, nothing. She was kind of a Sleeping Beauty. I visited every day and stayed with her but she wouldn’t respond to touch and words.
It was becoming pretty obvious – at least, to me – where this was headed. I couldn’t admit it to myself in words but my logical, practical, realistic side was starting to turn on the warning radar. This was probably not going to end well. It was starting to get hard.
Doctors had told me that they couldn’t keep her on machines indefinitely. Tomorrow would be the day. They needed to get her off the many machines that were keeping her comfortable and let her pick up the load. She needed to start fighting the battles on her own, now. Tomorrow would be the day. No one, including the doctors and staff, seemed very positive. Their faces betrayed their words. They looked tired, frustrated, and overwhelmed.
Her entry into the passage was beginning. I was starting to feel alone.