Last Friday in April

Medical emergence

Stitched in the side

of the head

Drove the speed limit, maybe 

one mile per hour over.

Nothing more, though, 

because that was a thing

in my control— 

the steering and the speed.

Not my breath and not his blood.

And then the doctors took over

from there. 

I swung into the emergent,

in-tranced. 

I provided a shoulder.

After a rag, his shoes, 

hydrogen peroxide, cotton

balls, and my own jagged,

tear-streaked breath,

it’s all I could. A shoulder. 

Wait for registration. 

Wh-where do I park; park 

the car? I panicked for him. 

So calm. So gray. 

“We’ll watch him.”

didn’t slow me down

as I found the closest parking spot,

grabbed all I had thought to bring—

giant waterbottle, warm sweatshirt,

a book for me, his wallet, his 

cell phone, my cell phone. 

Everything feels tilted now—

in the gray, drenched morning. 

I’m tipping into the story—

the day I heard a giant crash.

Then minutes later, 

my name mumbled, jumbled 

in pain or confusion or just

request, “Can you help me?”

Sure. I said, but then looked up,

and rushed. The blood covering his 

face, shook my breath, and 

sent me spiraling into action, 

grabbing for what?? What do I need?

A washcloth. Two. One damp. 

Blood off the face. Why didn’t I knock

when I heard the crash?? Why wasn’t

the crash the other roommate,

like I had hoped? Blood off the 

face. Don’t touch the gash.

Oh how it hurts. Must. Deep.

Talk, yes from me the jagged sort.

But this is what I’m doing. This

is what you you’ll feel. Like I could know?!

We have to take you… Might need stitched.

He hadn’t seen himself yet. Woke up

from unconscious and came to get me. 

Straight way. 

What do you need? Action, probsolv mode.

Shoes. And I must call my work.

Put away half-packed lunch.

Grab the day’s supplies.

Kept thinking about that crash.

Hours later. Even. The volume

of a slam, and the shake of

a door. Two? Maybe it was two. 

It was loud. And my panicked

brain needed to picture that it

came from the other side of the 

hallway, where innocent crashes

occur. Pain. Been sick. The crash.

The rush once we got in. A nurse who

puttered an engine sound and

made us all laugh.

Little jokes along the way.

He hadn’t seen it. And wouldn’t

until a day and a half later.

Little hills, he described them. 

They had been swollen, bleeding

flaps from the forehead. Then 

a patch of gauze soaking with

blood. Then stitched with blood

slipping around the corners. And

caked into the hair. And scratches

on his face from the floor or his

glasses. But he said those didn’t

hurt. 

IV, Tetanus, Blood Work, Stictches, 

Head. 

CAT scan, samples, questions, 

questions, questions. Sometimes

the same, asked by a different 

person. Why don’t they just look 

at a chart?

I couldn’t keep still when they 

took him for the scan, so I 

stalked the hallways. 

I could barely keep still when he 

came back. Let me get you another 

blanket. You’re so cold. I didn’t hold

his hand, though, not for the first

few? hours. Time sidled past all

day. Time’s easy to get lost in a

hospital. What if I had gone to

work, like I thought I might, 

when he got up? If I had

missed the “help me,” and

our roommate had slept through

it all again? If I hadn’t  

been there? If he hadn’t

come to get me? If he had

been unconscious for much longer?

But we came home that after

noon. Busy making comfortable,

happy preparing little foods. Bland.

I teared throughout the day, but

didn’t react until late late night.

He heard. We talked. Calmed down,

and he eased me to sleep.

I’m still offering my shoulder

whenever I can. And still holding

his hand when he is awake.

And sometimes when he is a

sleep.