It’s a room I’ve been in dozens of times, just never quite like this. As I looked around, I see they’ve tried to make it “homey”. The colors are browns, tans, and blues. All warm, calming colors. With all of the equipment, and beeping and people bustling about, it’s definitely not home. I’m not sure if those colors are to calm the families or the patients. In her case, she would never wake up to see them anyway. The view outside of the window is hardly a view at all, as it just peeped into the windows of the hospital rooms over the walkway.
I looked at her often, silently, and sometimes not-so-silently, cursing her for not trying the chemotherapy at least once. But now it’s too late. The tumor obstructed her bowel. It was unresectable and she refused chemotherapy. She gave up. I would never see her old, she would never see Autumn grow up. I would spend 2 days in this room. I spent them angry. Angry at her. Angry at me for acting like selfish child for choosing to leave me. How could she not know how much I needed her?
I met dozens of people in those 2 days. Nurses, doctors, techs. Each of them looking sadly at me because they knew our encounters would be brief. I left her side only once. I needed to get Autumn needed to say goodbye. After that, I sat in this room. Holding her hand. Waiting. I replayed every event in my life I could remember. Nearly all of them included her. Sometimes I treated her like shit (not my fault, I was a hormonal teen), but I sat there profusely apologizing anyway. I tried thanking her for everything, praying to God that she heard me. I sat there. Just waiting. I held her hand. I watched her take her last breath. And I couldn’t wait to get out of that room.
Now, I would go back to that room that was brown, tan and blue with no view a million times over, just to tell her one more time that I loved her.