The Waiting Room

He held her weight under his arm as they both shuffled slowly down the hallway. Her breathing was laboured and painful, and came in short, shallow, rasping breaths. Tears streamed down her face as she tried desperately to suppress painful sobs. They came to the door. “Do you want me to come in with you, or will I wait outside?” he asked.
“You can...wait outside.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Back in the waiting room he sat on the cushioned bench and composed himself. He made eye contact with the man who had let her go ahead of him, and nodded his head in thanks. The man nodded back, and quickly looked back at the magazine he was browsing. A small boy who had been playing in the middle of the room stopped and stared at him for a second, before going back to his father and asking in a whisper “Daddy, what's wrong with that man?” The father told the boy to hush.
He raised his hand to his mouth and noticed that it was shaking. He began to imagine scenarios in his head, and contemplated what life would be like without her. The doctor would come out and ask to see him for a moment. Then, he would explain in a very calm and professionally compassionate manner that they had done absolutely everything that they could, but she had stopped breathing, and then gone into cardiac arrest. He would try to stay calm, but fail miserably and break down before insisting on seeing her. He would hold her lifeless body and think that she looked just like she was sleeping. He would stroke her hair, the way that calmed her down when she had panic attacks, and that always soothed her and whisper into her ear to wake up. He would kiss her cheek and taste her still warm, living tears and try, just try to hold on to whatever of her was left. He would refuse to believe that something so precious and so profound could be lost and cease to be within the space of a few minutes. He would curse himself for letting her die alone, surrounded by strangers, in panic and terror. She had always been afraid of being alone.

“Daddy why is the man crying?”
“Come here Adam. Sit down and be good, ok?”
The boy sat and, sensing the gravity of the situation, stayed quiet. The man felt ridiculous. She would be fine; of course she would. He wiped his face and tried not to look at anyone else. He took his worry and his dread and dragged it back from the tips of his fingers and he squeezed it into his chest where he could contain it.
He thought about having to tell her family; he imagined the conversation with her father, and wondered how he would take it. He thought about the funeral, and whether or not he would sit with the family, or if he would just be another person, come to pay their respects. He thought about trying to get to sleep that night, and about the disconnection he would feel. He thought about feeling sick to his stomach and staring blankly into space for hours on end. He thought about talking to people about her and what had happened and forgetting that they were listening.

The door opened, and slowly and delicately, she walked out. He stood and went to her side, taking her weight under his arm once again. “Are you ok?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm”. She looked at him with tired eyes and smiled thinly. Her breath was still shallow and difficult, but less rasping than before.
“Ready to go home?”
“Yes.”
They shuffled slowly out of the doctor’s office. “Are you alright?” he said.
“Yes. It was just a bit scary.”