PART 2 – The Paramedic Asked One Simple Question About Maggie, and My Answer Made Me Realize How Little I Could Explain

The question should have been easy.

How long had Maggie been like this?

I had already answered it.

But the words kept returning.

Several days.

I looked at the paramedic's notebook.

He had written down what I'd told him.

To him, it was information.

To me, it felt like an admission.

I was her husband.

I should have been able to explain what had happened.

Instead, I had given him an estimate.

I looked back at Maggie.

Her face was still beneath the oxygen mask.

She seemed to hear me whenever I spoke.

At least, I hoped she did.

"Maggie, can you hear me?"

Her eyes moved beneath her lids.

Then she opened them.

Only for a moment.

"That's good," I whispered.

I had no idea whether it was good.

But I needed to say something gentle.

The paramedic leaned over and checked her again.

I moved my knees out of his way.

"Sorry."

"You're fine."

I nodded.

Then I moved a little farther back.

It was strange how quickly I had become afraid of doing the wrong thing.

Even sitting in the wrong place seemed important.

Maggie's hand remained in mine.

I could feel the small movement of her fingers whenever the ambulance shifted.

I kept looking for a deliberate squeeze.

Something that would tell me she was still fully aware.

Something familiar.

I had held her hand thousands of times.

Crossing parking lots.

Sitting together.

Walking beside each other.

I had never needed to think about it.

Now I was studying every small movement.

The paramedic looked at me again.

"Has she been able to talk to you?"

"A little."

He waited.

"Not much."

I hated how often I had to say that.

Not much.

Not really.

I didn't know.

Those weren't the answers I wanted to give.

I wanted to be useful.

Instead, I kept admitting how little I understood.

Maggie opened her eyes again.

I leaned toward her.

"Don't worry about answering anything."

She looked at me.

I could see how much effort it took.

"Just rest."

Her eyes shut.

I stayed bent toward her for another moment.

Then I lowered myself back onto the seat.

The ambulance hit a small bump.

I tightened my grip without meaning to.

Maggie's hand shifted in mine.

"Sorry, sweetheart."

She didn't respond.

I stared at the place where our fingers met.

I remembered how ordinary it had once felt to reach for her.

That was the cruel part.

The same hand.

The same person.

But suddenly everything depended on whether she could respond.

The paramedic adjusted a piece of equipment.

I heard a quiet sound from beside the stretcher.

I glanced up.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, sir. I'm checking her."

I nodded.

"All right."

I wanted to believe every calm word he said.

I also wanted him to understand that I was frightened.

Both feelings lived inside me at once.

I looked out through the ambulance window.

There was nothing there that helped me.

I turned back immediately.

Maggie was still lying in the same position.

Her breathing continued beneath the mask.

I watched for several seconds before I let myself move.

"She's my wife," I said quietly.

The paramedic looked toward me.

I realized he already knew that.

I felt foolish.

But I couldn't seem to stop talking.

"Her name's Maggie."

He nodded.

"I know."

I looked down.

"Right."

I didn't have anything useful to add.

I simply needed someone in that ambulance to understand who she was to me.

Not just a patient.

Not just a woman on a stretcher.

Maggie.

My wife.

The person whose hand I recognized even when I couldn't recognize what was happening to her.

I leaned toward her again.

"I'm still here."

Her eyes opened briefly.

She found my face.

Then they closed.

I remained where I was.

Because for that moment, being there was the only thing I could give her.

Click here to continue reading: PART 3: Every Time Maggie Opened Her Eyes, I Hoped She Would Speak, but Even Looking at Me Seemed to Exhaust Her