By Paul Rousseau
The physicians advise it is a matter of hours. “A matter of hours? Until she dies?” They glance at each other. “We’re so sorry.” I gasp for air and flee to the visitors’ lavatory. I plant my hands on the sink, gaze into the mirror, and pivot my head left to right, right to left, repeatedly, as if attempting to assure myself I am still alive. There is a knock on the door. I wash my hands, splash my face, and exit. I walk toward the elevator and begin to wobble. My knees fold and I collapse against the wall as guttural sobs roll up from my belly. People slow, glimpse my crumpled body, and resume their journeys. A nurse parts from the crowd and queries, “Are you okay?” I nod, reflexively, then blurt, “My wife is dying.” She pats my shoulder and murmurs, “I’m so sorry about your wife. Can I get you a wheelchair before you fall?” I shake my head in refusal. I want to fall, I want to die. She squeezes my arm, says she will ask hospital security to check on me, and moves on. I remain stationary, my hands pressed firmly on the wall like a blind man fingering Braille. Shortly, my legs quiver and weaken and I shrivel to the floor, weeping. Visitors unload from the elevator, glance at my grieving spectacle, and scurry to their destinations.