and cheeks with a warm, damp rag and then felt her toes. They were cold, so I looked through our bag, found a pair of socks that I gently slid over her heels, and put another blanket over her feet. After pulling the sheets up around her shoulders, I sat down next to the bed and tucked her hair behind her ears, where I still felt some dried blood. For the third time, I ran a towel under some warm water and wiped her face, arms, and neck.
I don't remember my arms being sore afterwards, but I do remember it took the nurse three tries before she found my vein. Maggie needed a lot of blood pretty quick, so I gave one more pint than they normally would allow. The nurse knew Maggie needed it, so when I grabbed the needle and told her to keep going, she looked at me over the top of her glasses, opened another Coca-Cola for me, and kept drawing. I walked back to the delivery room with both pits of my elbows taped up, sat next to the bed, and watched my blood drip into my wife.
While I was sitting in the quiet beneath the moon, a wrinkle appeared on Maggie's forehead between her eyebrows-her trademark expression. A sure sign that she was determined to figure something out. I placed my palm on her forehead and held it there for a few seconds while the wrinkle melted away and her breathing slowed.
"Maggs?"
I slid my hand under hers and thought how her callused fingers seemed so out of place on someone so beautiful. Under the rhythm and short blips of the heart-rate monitor, I watched her heart beat, listened to her short, quick breaths, and waited for her big brown eyes to open and look at me.
They did not.
I stared out the window over the parking lot, but there wasn't much to look at. South Carolina is one of the more beautiful places on God's earth-especially where the wisteria crawls out of the weeds that can't choke it-but the parking lot of Digger Community Hospital is not. I turned back to Maggie and remembered the river, the way the light followed Maggie's eyes, her smile, her back, and how the water had dripped off her skin and puddled on her stomach. "Maggs," I said, "let's go swimming."
THE DAYS TURNED INTO NIGHTS AND BACK INTO days, and I became afraid to blink, thinking I'd miss the opening of her eyes. During that time, I'm pretty sure other people came in and out of the room, but I never saw them. I think I remember Amos putting his hand on my shoulder and telling me, "Don't worry, I'll take care of the farm." And somewhere during one of the nights, I think I remember smelling the lingering aroma of Bryce's beer breath, but for seven days my entire world consisted of Maggie and me. Anything outside that picture never came into focus. The periphery of my life had blurred.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, the doctor took me out into the hall and gave me his prognosis. Consternation was painted across his face, and it was clear this wasn't easy for him, no matter how much practice he must have had at delivering bad news. "Dylan, I'll give it to you straight," he said.
The seconds melted into days.
"Maggie's out of what we call the hopeful window. The longer she stays in this vegetative state, the more involuntary muscle responses she'll begin to have. Unfortunately, these muscle responses are from spinal activity, not brain activity. Within the next few weeks, she's got a 50 percent chance of waking up. The following month, it drops in half. Following that ... " He shook his head. "Of course, this is all just statistics; miracles can happen. But they don't happen often."
Later that afternoon, the hospital executive responsible for accounts receivable stopped in for a visit. "Mr. Styles, I'm Mr. Thentwhistle.Jason Thentwhistle." He stepped into the room and extended his hand.
I immediately didn't like him.
"Yes, well, I think we should talk about your financial arrangements."
I turned my head slightly and narrowed my eyes.
"Coma patients often require long-term hospital care...."
That was all I needed to
I don't remember my arms being sore afterwards, but I do remember it took the nurse three tries before she found my vein. Maggie needed a lot of blood pretty quick, so I gave one more pint than they normally would allow. The nurse knew Maggie needed it, so when I grabbed the needle and told her to keep going, she looked at me over the top of her glasses, opened another Coca-Cola for me, and kept drawing. I walked back to the delivery room with both pits of my elbows taped up, sat next to the bed, and watched my blood drip into my wife.
While I was sitting in the quiet beneath the moon, a wrinkle appeared on Maggie's forehead between her eyebrows-her trademark expression. A sure sign that she was determined to figure something out. I placed my palm on her forehead and held it there for a few seconds while the wrinkle melted away and her breathing slowed.
"Maggs?"
I slid my hand under hers and thought how her callused fingers seemed so out of place on someone so beautiful. Under the rhythm and short blips of the heart-rate monitor, I watched her heart beat, listened to her short, quick breaths, and waited for her big brown eyes to open and look at me.
They did not.
I stared out the window over the parking lot, but there wasn't much to look at. South Carolina is one of the more beautiful places on God's earth-especially where the wisteria crawls out of the weeds that can't choke it-but the parking lot of Digger Community Hospital is not. I turned back to Maggie and remembered the river, the way the light followed Maggie's eyes, her smile, her back, and how the water had dripped off her skin and puddled on her stomach. "Maggs," I said, "let's go swimming."
THE DAYS TURNED INTO NIGHTS AND BACK INTO days, and I became afraid to blink, thinking I'd miss the opening of her eyes. During that time, I'm pretty sure other people came in and out of the room, but I never saw them. I think I remember Amos putting his hand on my shoulder and telling me, "Don't worry, I'll take care of the farm." And somewhere during one of the nights, I think I remember smelling the lingering aroma of Bryce's beer breath, but for seven days my entire world consisted of Maggie and me. Anything outside that picture never came into focus. The periphery of my life had blurred.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, the doctor took me out into the hall and gave me his prognosis. Consternation was painted across his face, and it was clear this wasn't easy for him, no matter how much practice he must have had at delivering bad news. "Dylan, I'll give it to you straight," he said.
The seconds melted into days.
"Maggie's out of what we call the hopeful window. The longer she stays in this vegetative state, the more involuntary muscle responses she'll begin to have. Unfortunately, these muscle responses are from spinal activity, not brain activity. Within the next few weeks, she's got a 50 percent chance of waking up. The following month, it drops in half. Following that ... " He shook his head. "Of course, this is all just statistics; miracles can happen. But they don't happen often."
Later that afternoon, the hospital executive responsible for accounts receivable stopped in for a visit. "Mr. Styles, I'm Mr. Thentwhistle.Jason Thentwhistle." He stepped into the room and extended his hand.
I immediately didn't like him.
"Yes, well, I think we should talk about your financial arrangements."
I turned my head slightly and narrowed my eyes.
"Coma patients often require long-term hospital care...."
That was all I needed to
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