The Way It Used to Be

52

As it always did, time went on. Weeks in the hospital turned into a month before we realized it, and when June finally rolled around, it was difficult to be hopeful. There'd been no change. Every day, his vitals were great. Every day, the doctor said, "Maybe tomorrow."  When tomorrow came, he said it again.

Jack and I were hopeless and helpless, spending day in and day out sitting next to his bed begging him to wake up. The doctor had said if he would just try to breathe on his own, try to breathe against or above the oxygen levels on the machine, they'd wean him off. He'd yet to do it.

"Colt, please," I begged at night. "Please open your eyes. Please come back to me. Take a deep breath, look at me."

I begged, and then I read, and then I begged some more. I paced the floor in his room. I fell asleep each night holding his hand. It never got easier or better.

On a Tuesday afternoon in early June, Dr. Addington finally made a change. Jack leaned against the wall in Colton's room, and I sat, holding his hand in my usual spot.

"We're at point in his care here, that I feel like we aren't going to move away from," he started. I immediately started shaking my head, ready to fire back with any insult that came to mind, tell him he was wrong about this, that Colton would fight if we gave him a longer chance.

"Now, Beau, listen," he started, and Jack moved closer to me. He reached for my other hand and squeezed it in his. "We aren't giving up yet, right, Doc?" he asked, looking from me to Dr. Addington.

The doctor shook his head, but he sighed deeply before continuing. "No," he started, "We aren't giving up. I had hoped that by now his body would be responding better, fighting against the machines, raising his oxygen levels to the point that we'd have to turn them off.  He's not, though. His vitals are great. Blood pressure, pulse, temperature... they're all great. His blood counts are relatively normal considering the extent of his injuries. For all intents and purposes, he should already be awake and talking to you."

He continued while Jack and I listened, explaining how he wanted to take Colton off the respirator. He wanted to see if Colton would breathe on his own and wake up when his body realized the machines weren't there to do it for him. We ran the risk of Colton not being able to do it, but we also had the possibility of Colton waking up.

So, around two in the afternoon, the nurses ushered Jack and I into the hallway, and they removed all the tubes. All the wires. All that was left was his IV wire, catheter, and the finger clip wire monitoring his heart rate.

Once again, my breath caught in my throat. Within minutes he'd gone from looking so small and fragile to so... normal. He looked more like himself than he had in a month. His face had a light, scruffy beard now. It had grown out and was unkempt and messy. His hair was messy, and his lips were dry. I immediately rummaged through my purse to find some chapstick and carefully rubbed it on his lips.

"I know it's cherry," I laughed, "I'm sorry."  When I finished, I bent and placed my lips on his forehead. For the first time in a month, I could feel his warm skin beneath my lips, and it wasn't the skin on his hand.  I moved from his forehead to his cheek before whispering in his ear.  "Come home, my Colt, it's time to wake up."

I was hopeful that he'd open his eyes right then and take a deep breath, but he didn't.   Jack and I stood with bated breath, watching the screen on the one remaining monitor in his room.

Heart rate fine.
Blood pressure fine.
Temperature fine.

And then, his oxygen level increased. I watched his chest rise and fall, and my hands flew to my mouth. Tears spilled from eyes over my cheeks. "Yes!" I said loudly, making Jack jump from surprise beside me, "He's doing it, Jack."

I knelt beside his bed, wrapping my fingers around his hand. "There you go, Colton," I said softly, kissing his fingers, "keep taking those deep breaths. Open those eyes and look at me."

I waited again, but he didn't. His breathing continued for hours, and we watched him.  Jack paced around the room, checking the monitor constantly. I held his hand, still whispering, still begging him to open his eyes.

Around seven, Jack had finally settled into the recliner chair in the corner, his body and feet still. I rested my head on the bed, my fingers still wrapped around his, squeezing slightly every few minutes to remind him I was there.

The nurse popped his head in around eight-thirty to remind us that visiting hours were ending at nine. We nodded. We both knew. Tonight, though, and I knew was Jack was thinking. There was a distinct possibility that Colton would wake up in the night. We were more hopeful than we had been in weeks. I knew it was going to be hard for him to leave, but I also knew that I wasn't going anywhere. It would take an act of God to remove from the room. The hospital could catch fire and burn down around me, and I'd still be sitting there, waiting on Colton to open his eyes.

At 8:50, Jack stood. "Beau..." he started.  "I'm not leaving," I answered. "No. I won't do it."

"Beau, you've stayed every night..." he continued. "And I haven't asked once. I haven't fought you on it. You've been here every night. Every day."

"No," I responded, shaking my head. "No. I have to know.  have to know how he feels."

"And you're just gonna ask him as soon as he wakes up?" he scoffed.

"No," I answered. "I think he'll tell me." 

"Beau, I think you're—..." he started again, but I wasn't listening.

Colton's fingers fluttered slightly within mine. I gasped, squeezing them softly. "Jack, hush," I almost yelled, holding my free hand up to shush him.

Colton's fingers fluttered again, his fingers squeezing back against mine softly. "It's me, it's Beau," I whispered. "I'm right here."

He fluttered them again, and I watched as his chest rose and fell slightly faster. Jack crossed the room to stand beside the bed, watching intently. "Jack's here," I continued. Jack reached out to touch his arm, and Colton's brow furrowed slightly.

My breath left my body. Time moved in slow motion. The seconds moved like hours.

Then, his eyes fluttered. His eyes moved behind his lids. The eyelids fluttered. And then...

He opened his eyes.

"B-b..." he started, and I immediately stood, the plastic chair by the bed falling when I did.

"B...beautiful..." he continued, his eyes finding mine.  I locked my gaze on him, my hand still on his.

"I'm here!" I responded.

And then he said two words that dropped me to my knees.