I have been sitting in this chair for hours. Night has become a phantom, creeping in on me. I sit on a Pepto-Bismol pink cushion that is hard and flat, as if well used, as if countless people had come before me to contemplate. After a while you go numb, you forget you have probably been sitting in the chair for hours, maybe even days. Your mind wanders. You become saturated with your contemptibly unimportant surroundings. Soon the beeping of the machines becomes a song. The slow shallow breathing produces a melody. Your conscience shuts down. The weight of the events tonight is too much to bear. Your journey began expecting a new life, instead you receive promised death. .
Soon the artificial song lulls me into a trance. I start to remember what has brought me to this point; the contractions we were both expecting. I had been prepared for months, had everything mapped out. The suitcase was by the front door. I knew the fasted route, even knew how long the commute would take. Seven point two minutes, this would be all the time needed to change my life forever, seven point two minutes. .
I saw the ambulance coming. Maybe I could have reacted faster, and maybe I should have driven slower, maybe The accident occurred just as I was pulling into the hospital. They failed to see me; however, I saw them. The end result I was unable to prevent the collision. .
The whole incident is a blur; I am unable to remember how I ended up in this chair. I once heard "one often calms one's grief by recounting it". If this is the case, I must be one of the calmest adversaries of grief. .
This night I have seen the significant loss of my son, and what seems to be the imminent loss of my partner. This night, a night I should be commemorating, has left me paralyzed. I may have all my motor skills left, still I am powerless to think or feel. They want me to decide, to play God! Those are standards no man can be held to.