Honestly, I've been too jacked up to post about Brooks' actual death. I think my damn cheese finally flew off its cracker the week lead-up to his sadiversary.
Well, good. I officially don't have my shit together all over again.
On the evening of the 12th, the ICU nurse pointedly implored me yet again to go home and get some rest. I never heeded her admonition; what if he emerged from his coma for mere minutes and I missed it?
This time she added, "when he arouses from this, he's going to need you like never before, so please be rested when he does." This was logic I could follow. Ok, my hubby will need me at maximum capacity; I finally relented and my momma drove me back to our house to sleep a few hours. We'd return to the hospital at 4am.
Sounded like a plan.
But: my cell rang at 12:15am, jettisoning me from deep slumber to awake, pulse quickened. The nurse said hesitantly, "There's been a change in your husband's condition." I screamed,"Is he alright??"
"No ma'am, if he doesn't improve, CPR could come into play. You need to come up here." No, no, no, she had to be mistaken. Nevertheless, Mom and I bolted to the hospital, me in the passenger seat frantically texting any and all to please pray for Brooks.
Mom dropped me off at the hospital entry way. Overhead, the loud speakers were blaring: Code 99, Code 99. I exploded into the ICU, sprinting down the corridor and was caught by the neurosurgeon. He forced me into a chair and started to talk: "All of Brooks' organ damage has put stress on his heart, and--"
I cut in, "No, not his heart, it's his head..."
He said, more firmly ,"No! His heart. They are working on him." I cried, "Are you talking about CPR?" He only nodded. I leapt off my chair, and began to dash towards Brooks' room. The doctor grabbed my arm, and told me I don't need to be in there. Bullshit! I pushed him off me, and ran to Brooks.
The first thing I saw was his ashen face, this mottled, inhuman grey that I'll never forget. About 15 people were working his code. The violent chest compressions, the defibrillator pads making his thorax jerk, tubes, catheters , IV insertions, the monitor chimes screeching. It was mayhem, full stop.
I surveyed the scene and began pleading, begging, "Please help him! Oh my God, please help him!!" I also wormed my way as close to Brooks as I was permitted and I shouted at him to stay with me, that I needed him, that I loved him. I reported his vitals to him and let him know he was doing better.
They resuscitated him successfully twice. I'd be flooded with relief, with gratitude, only for Brooks to code again a few minutes later.
The doctor running the code was a nasty young asswipe. During one of Brooks' successful CPR's, he swaggered over to me and imperiously stated, "You need to shut this down. This is not compatible with life. He's only going to do it again." All this within Brooks' earshot.
Fuck you, fake - ass Ken doll!
I yelled for someone to get him out of my face. Brooks did code again, and when darkened blood started spurting from his mouth, I knew his ribs to be broken, his lungs most likely perforated. But when all orifices--surgical and nonsurgical started an ooze- like hemorrhage, I knew it was done. My head knew. My heart sure didn't.
They yelled, CLEAR, and trembling, I asked, "What's happening? What's going on? Do everything. Please!!" The ersatz Ken Doll rolled his eyes and barely concealed his irritation:"we've already done everything. He's not even THERE anymore!"
I held Brooks' limp hand as they removed his medical equipment. I climbed onto his gurney and hugged him. I kissed him, and at one point, tented up an eyelid to see if he was truly dead. The nurses and my momma had to peel me off his body, as I was clutching him. Much of this part, I have no authentic memories of. My momma told me later what had transpired.
I fuzzily recall being shuffled past all the ICU nurses who were crying and squeezing my hands as we were ushered into a small private room to discuss arrangements for the funeral home and whether we wanted an autopsy. No. My Brooks had been cut on so much in the past year and a half. He told me: never let another hole be drilled into my head, and never let me live on a machine. He told me this three days before he died, oddly enough.
And I'd allowed both to happen in order to save his life. But after he lost the battle, I'd be damned if I permitted him to be violated any further.
No, my Brooks would have peace from now on.
Baylee
