Good as Dead(48)

When I finally saw the American flag flying high in front of the hospital, I became a horse running for the barn. The earth could have parted in front of me, and even that would not have stopped me.

I screeched to a stop in front of the “Ambulances Only” entrance and jumped out of the car. I didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice when I screamed, “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

I tore the car door open and lurched for Holly’s seat belt. She had rolled over onto it, and I had to lift her torso with one hand to free the buckle. I hooked my arms under her armpits, and as I dragged her body across the seat, a security guard shouted at me. “Hold on, I’ll get a gurney!”

I couldn’t wait for a gurney. Holly’s face was white as chalk. I flipped her over and hoisted her fireman-style over my shoulder. The double doors swung open as I approached, and I charged through them like a man possessed.

“Lay her down here,” an orderly commanded as he wheeled a gurney toward us. I eased her down onto her butt, and he guided her shoulders onto the bed. Her lifeless legs were dangling off the side, so I gently swung them up and laid them straight.

“Did she drown?” the man asked, searching her wrist for a pulse. There was so much adrenaline coursing through my body I had forgotten we were both soaking wet.

“Overdose,” I told him. “Found her in the shower.” He pressed a button, and another set of doors opened. I followed him as he pushed her through.

A doctor in scrubs jogged over to us. He looked like a frat boy barely out of college, with his shaggy hair and shiny, pink cheeks. He took the stethoscope from around his neck and pressed it to her chest.

“Vicodin,” I said helplessly. “I don’t know how many.” I could feel a lump forming in my chest. This was my fault. The deal we made was my idea. I did this to her. If she died, it would be because I killed her.

“Pulse is 115, breathing is shallow,” he said to a nurse who had appeared out of nowhere. He shone a pen light in her eyes. “Let’s start with 0.4 milligrams of NARCAN IV push, repeat every ten minutes until she becomes responsive. Get RT to prepare a ventilator in case her respiratory effort doesn’t improve. Place a nasogastric tube for gastric lavage. And send a toxicology screen, acetaminophen level, and liver panel to test for hepatotoxicity.” The nurse nodded and started wheeling her away. I tried to follow. The doctor stopped me with his hand.

“You the husband?” he asked. And for a second I almost said yes.

“No,” I replied, “we’re not married.” I realized my answer implied that we were together. In a way, we were—bound by something much more permanent than marriage.

“The Narcan should stabilize her,” he said matter-of-factly, “but we’ll need to do some tests to know the extent of any organ damage once we remove any remaining tablets from her stomach.”

I repeated the words in my head. Should stabilize her . . . do some tests . . . “What kind of organ damage?” I asked.

“Her pupils were responsive, so brain function looks good,” he said robotically, like he was talking about a science experiment, not a human life. “But toxicity in the liver is a concern. She’s not out of the woods yet.”

I didn’t know I was crying until a tear rolled onto my lip.

It was in that moment that I realized, somehow, and completely unexpectedly, Holly had become my somebody to “only care” about.

And I didn’t know what the hell I would do if I lost her.





ANDY


Three months ago

The blank page is a wondrous thing.

Many writers fear it. They hate starting a new project. They procrastinate for days, weeks, or even forever.

But I love the blank page. I love being in a state of boundless possibility. I love the reminder that—even as a mere human—I have the ability to create whole worlds. Writing is a superpower. Writers conjure human emotions—horror, sadness, exhilaration, despair—simply by arranging words on a page. Churning up a person’s emotions is a great responsibility, and I have never taken it lightly.

When I was just starting out as a writer, I had the audacity to think that what I was creating with my words came from me. I thought the ideas, images, and stories that popped into my head were mine, that my brain had generated them, that I was some sort of wizard.

But now I know that the ability to create is a very different kind of gift. When I write, I am not manufacturing, as one might do in a factory or a lab, I am receiving. My job is not to mine my mind for characters, it’s to ask them to visit me, then completely surrender to them. Writing is listening. It’s spiritual, in the sense that what I write is not of me, but rather flows through me. Flipping on my computer and greeting the blank page is an act of surrender—like saying a prayer—then humbly trusting in God’s sacred gift.

That’s not to say there is no craft involved in writing a book or a script. What I receive is not fully formed. I have to pair the images that flow into my head with words, then shape those words into beautiful sentences, and those sentences into a coherent narrative with a beginning, middle, and end. Creating is a dance with the divine. The blank page is the invitation. The ideas are the invited guests. I use words to wrangle them. It requires skill and faith in equal measure.

Some writing teachers will tell you, if you want to be a writer, you need to write every day. But I don’t agree with that. You need life experiences to understand what you are receiving—otherwise you can’t authentically transcribe them. You can’t create emotional content without experiencing emotions. Original stories are a tangle of what is divinely offered to you, and everything you’ve learned, felt, observed, experienced. Put more simply, you need to breathe in to breathe out. Living is breathing in. Putting words on the page is breathing out.