To Feel Alive

The coffee hasn't gotten better since yesterday, but I keep drinking it. It gives my hands something to do, bringing the cup to my mouth over and over.

I've been staring at the monitor in this room for days. So many days. There is no change. Even though I know the sensors on her sometimes get loose, the resulting alarms startle me out of a kind of hypnotic state. No one comes running when the monitor starts flashing red. On the first day, I got up and went out into the hall when the alarm sounded, looking for someone to come and help. I thought I'd see them running to save her. By the second week, I figured out that they only come when the alarms go off a few times in a row. Or if a relative presses the call button.

Some people read. Some people knit, or look at their phones, or go to the cafeteria to take a break. I can't do any of that. I can only sit here, waiting for her to wake up.

There is a small window in the corner of the room and the blinds are usually closed, but today they are open just a little. It is a sunny day outside. She should be outside on a day like today. She should be smiling and laughing and getting some sun on her nose; enough to cause some freckles, but not enough to burn.

An alarm goes off again, this time the 02 sat monitor. She hasn't moved, and her breathing hasn't changed. Sometimes the sensors are faulty. Maybe that's what it is today. I wait a minute and the alarm stops on its own.

I sip this bad coffee and think about when I last changed my clothes. When I last put on some makeup or combed my hair. Not today, I don't think. Yesterday? Maybe.

When I come in every morning, I feel the eyes of the desk staff as I walk to this room, move the chair closer to the bed, and take her hand. Yesterday I saw the woman writing notes shake her head when I walked by. As though this is a waste of my time or energy. As though I could be doing anything else.

The smell here is hard to describe. It smells of canned air, small spaces, unwashed bodies and something even more corporeal - blood, bile, infection - the smell of the body slowly giving up. I bring a nice scented cream for her hands and feet, but it is just a layer of flowers over the smell of waiting. Watching.

The first days were hellish, of course. Every moment was critical and the feeling of urgency inside me to solve this puzzle drove me to ask questions and pace the room. I never stopped moving. Even when I sat down, my fingers flew over the keyboard on my phone, searching for answers.

By day 5, I learned that it was better to sit. That there was nothing I could do, there will never be anything I can do. I can only wait. So that urgency inside me hardened into a stone. I feel it, deep in my belly.

I don't know what time it is when I hear you knock at the door. I turn my head away from the monitor. You're standing outside the glass sliding door, leaning slightly into the room.

"Hi," you say. You give me a small smile.

I have seen you around. I recognize your jacket from the place it usually resides - on a chair in the room just around the corner. You are one of the waiting, like me.

"Hi," I say. My croaky voice makes me realize it's the first time I have spoken to anyone today. I clear my throat.

"Do you...need anything?" you say. "I thought I'd go to the cafeteria and get some coffee."

I hold up my cup. "Ah," you say. "What about a walk?" I shake my head, no.

You take a step into the room, and then another, so you are standing close to me.

"I see you in here, every day. All day," you say.

"Uh huh," I say.

"I think you can leave here for a minute," you say. "Let's go outside. Let's get some air. She'll be okay for a few minutes," you say, looking over at the bed.

You look as worn and tired and sad as I do.

"Okay," I say.

The fresh air hits me like a wave of cold water. I take a deep breath and open my eyes a little wider. I squint to find the sunglasses in my bag and get them on. I haven't seen the sun this bright in a long time. The colours out here feel garish, almost cartoonish in their harshness. Some birds chirp at each other in a bush nearby.

You find a bench in the "healing garden" and sit down, patting the wood next to you. I sit down, and you reach out your hand to introduce yourself. I shake it and do the same.

"I've seen you here, too," I say. "Waiting." You nod, yes, and lift your face to the sun and close your eyes. The warmth does feel good on the skin. I study you for a moment. Your hair is a bit long, streaked with some grey at the temple. There's a bit of a beard coming in - probably because you've stopped bothering to shave. You look weary. We, the waiting, are always weary.

"It's my son," you say, and my heart cracks for you. I feel tears come to my eyes and before I can stop them or turn away, I have started to sob. You put your hand on my back and rub it gently.

"It's okay," you say, and I feel so selfish for sobbing. I look up at you, trying to hold back my tears.

"It's over," you say, and I know what you mean. It isn't over, but there is no more hope. No hope your boy will open his eyes and smile at you, no hope that you'll laugh with him after dinner, no hope you'll be annoyed when he makes a mess or is thoughtless. No hope he will put his arms around you and hug you back. This thought wrecks me, and I can't control my sobbing anymore.

I feel as though I am breaking into tiny pieces and I am crying so hard it occurs to me that I may vomit on you. I am heaving and crying and bent over and every feeling that I have had since that first day is tumbling out of me, completely out of my control. I've gone so far into myself now that I am not aware of you at all until you put your hands on my shoulders and say my name. I look up, weeping, and you let out a breath, and take me into your arms. The pressure of your arms around me starts to calm my body. You're whispering something in my ear and I can't hear it for my own sobbing. But soon, I'm taking deeper, ragged breaths and running my sleeve across my nose, and I hear you.

"It's okay," you say, again and again. "It's okay. Everything is going to be okay."

I don't know whether you're telling me, or yourself, but I've never needed to believe a lie so much in my whole life.

I take deep breaths and sit up, and you're looking at me with your bright blue eyes, and your face looks so calm, so peaceful, and then I am kissing you, and you are kissing me, and I don't know who started it but I don't care.

There's a desperation to this kiss. There's a compulsion.

You put your hands on either side of my face while you're kissing me and your tongue slips into my mouth, and I open my mouth to you and we are kissing like we are trying to consume each other. I can feel my body waking up to this and my hands are running up your chest, around your back and now I'm sitting in your lap, still joined at the mouth but pressing myself into the hardness I feel there. Your hands are in my hair.

You break away for a moment. You look at me, your face concerned.

"What are we doing?" you ask me.

"I think we are letting ourselves feel something," I say.

"Something else," you say.

"Let's go somewhere," I say. I get up and lead you by the hand back into the building.

There's a family care room near the floor where we wait. Sometimes you can hear people in this room crying after they've received bad news. I open the door and find it empty. It smells like recently reheated food, a little greasy, a spice I can't identify. You follow me into the room and close the door behind you. I check to see if the door locks. It does.

"What do you want?" I ask you. You shake your head, a little lost, as though the trance of the kiss has worn off and you are waking up to the reality of where we are. So I lead you over to the couch. I undo your shirt, slowly. I take it off and fold it carefully, placing it on the table nearby. I undo the button on your pants, and slide them down over your hips. You step out of them and I fold them and place them on the table. You are standing there, arms at your side, watching me. You are, maybe, too thin. I lift my own shirt over my head and place it on the table next to your clothes. I take my pants off and add them to the pile.

It's a little cold in this room. I lay down on the couch. You're watching me, standing there in your underwear, and I motion to you to join me. You lay your body on top of mine; I open my legs a little to let you nestle into me. I put my arms around you. You bury your face in my neck. I run my hands over your back, pulling you into me. I wrap my legs around yours.

You reach down to push my bra up over my breasts and bring your mouth to me, sucking and licking my nipple. I hold your hair in my hands and let the feeling wash over me. I begin to roll my hips as you lick and suck and tease my nipples. Your body is warm over mine, alive. Through my hands on your back, I feel your heart beating.

You moan as the mound of my pussy grinds into you. I reach down and pull my underwear down over my hips and to my knees, and then start to pull yours down too. I hold your buttocks in my hands and pull you towards me. You look at me and take a breath, and then reach one hand down to guide yourself inside me.

We pause, laying here on this vinyl couch. Your hardness feels good inside me as you hold yourself still. I feel your breathing deepen. You tuck your head into my neck again. I trace the line of gray hair at your temples, and feel your weight settle on me as you let go of some of the tension in your body. I hear you sniffle.

"It's not okay," I say quietly. "I know that it's not okay. It's never going to be okay again."

Your body shakes now as you cry silently against me. I hold you a little tighter and keep stroking your hair.

"I know," I say. "I know. I'm here," I say. It is all I can do. Your tears collect in the hollow beneath my collarbone. Your whiskers are rough against my neck.

After a time, you stop shaking and your breathing slows. You lift your head up and pass your arm across your eyes. We look at each other for a long moment. Outside the room, I hear a burst of laughter from staff passing in the hall. Outside the room, it is just another day.

You begin to move inside me, looking into my eyes. Your tender kiss tastes of tears. I put my hands on your face and hold your gaze as you press yourself into me again and again, moving faster and faster. You grunt softly with your final thrust.

We hold each other until it feels right to move.

"I should go back," I say. I feel both lighter and heavier.

We dress without speaking, and I unlock the door. It's still sunny outside.

"Are you ready?" I ask. You close your eyes and give a quick nod. We walk back, passing the staff at the desk and the other visitors. Just outside the room where we met, you take my hand. Your hand is large and warm and reminds me that I am not alone. I squeeze it, so you know you're not alone either.

Later, you will go around the corner to your son's room and consider what must be done. If you want me to, I'll go too.

But now, in this room, the overhead fluorescent lights are on; it is hard on her eyes. I flip the switch to darken the room. I check the monitors and find that nothing has changed. You pull the second chair next to mine beside the bed, and take my hand again. The machines beep. There is a low hum from somewhere, the quiet murmur of people in other rooms. We wait. We watch.

"Tell me about her," you say, turning your face towards me as you bend forward in your chair, leaning on your knees.

So, I do. And as you listen, I sense something inside me that I recognize as hope, starting to wake up.