Page 107 of Poetry By Dead Men
The elevator dings, and the door slides open, but I don’t enter it. For some reason, my body won’t move. Instead, I wheel to the card, picking it up.
A Prayer to St. Jude: Patron saint of lost causes,it reads above a picture of a peaceful-looking man in a white shroud. There’s a prayer below it, one I recognize.St. Jude, I entrust my petitions to you…
I heard that line a thousand times from Molly’s mom’s mouth as she sat next to her dying son.
It didn’t work for her.
I tuck the card in my pocket, unable to bring myself to throw it away.Maybe this time, I think, just as the phone in my lap begins to ring.
NOW
September 2024: Charleston, SC
Will you wait forever by the water's edge
Like Edgar and Annabell Lee?
Or smell a red, red rose and for me yearn
Like Robert beneath spring trees?
Will someone ever crave to kiss my lips
The way the moonbeams kiss the sea?
And through your thoughts, and passions, and delights
Will you count the ways you love me?
—An excerpt from "Poetry," written by Beth Winters, performed by Robert Beckett
The steady beep of the monitor almost lulls me to sleep. Almost. Except it’s been six hours since Bobby was brought from the recovery room, and he still isn't awake. Now that he’s no longer sedated, they were able to extubate him, and it brings me comfort to see his chest rising and falling on its own, no ECMO machine in sight.
I squeeze his hand, reassured that his skin feels warmer since surgery, and while I don't know much about the heart, I'm hoping it's because his new one is pumping blood throughout his body efficiently enough to warm even his fingers and toes.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The monitor continues, but it never fades into background noise. It's almost like a poem in and of itself, or maybe a song—melodic and rhythmic and saying so much more than words ever could.
Beep—I'm working.
Beep—I'm beating.
Beep—I'm alive.
Now if he would just wake up.
Bobby's surgeon, Dr. Lasley, clears his throat as he enters the room. He’s checked in every hour since surgery, assuring us nothing’s wrong and that Bobby’s body is just resting. The surgery went perfectly, he'd said. Actually, his exact words were, "If they were to film the perfect heart transplant to show aspiring doctors in medical school, it would be this one."
Dr. Lasley pulls out his flashlight, quickly flashing it in Bobby's eyes before moving on to listen to his heart and lungs. I hold my breath, and I wonder if I'll ever feel normal again, or if I'll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"He sounds great," the doctor says, turning around. "I promise, I have no current concerns. He should wake up any time now."
I exhale slowly, trying to calm my nerves. "Is there a time we should worry? If he doesn't wake up, I mean?"
The doctor jots something down on his notepad, taking a moment to answer. "If he's not awake by tomorrow, I'll be reevaluating why. Otherwise, you're looking at a completely normal part of the recovery process."
I wring my hands in my lap, nodding my head. "Got it. Stop worrying." I say, and Dr. Lasley laughs.
"At least try. He's in good hands." He turns to leave. "I'll be back in another couple hours. Try to get some rest. You're still recovering yourself," he says.
