I Love You to Death(79)

The following week, he started vomiting. He wasn’t able to keep anything down and I was now starting to get really scared. By the end of the third day of him being sick I suggested to him we go to the hospital.
"We’ll go tomorrow babe," he said to me, struggling almost to get the words out.
It was late and rain was coming down outside.
"Sam I think we should go now," I said.
He smiled weakly at me and said, "Just let me sleep tonight babe. It’s shit out there. I promise I’ll let you take me tomorrow."
In the end I relented. I wish I hadn’t but shortly afterwards he fell asleep and I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I sat there watching him for a while, an increasing fear working its way into my gut. I thought about calling someone. But as usual there was no one. All of Sam’s family were in Seattle and mine were all dead.
I could just call an ambulance, I thought to myself, trying to picture Sam waking up to the paramedics carrying him down the stairs.
As I sat there watching him sleep, debating what to do, his hand reached out and took mine. Without opening his eyes he whispered to me, "Come sleep babe. Tomorrow, we’ll go tomorrow."
Reluctantly I crawled onto the bed and curled around him. He was burning hot, the blankets having been thrown off and lying next to him, I didn’t need any of my own.
Eventually I fell asleep.
Curled around Sam. He was breathing, warm and alive.
The next morning when I woke up, it was the worst day of my life.
Sam was lying on the bed completely still. Not breathing, cold and dead.
He’d died in the night and I hadn’t even noticed.
I grabbed his hand. It was cold, unmoving. I lay my head on his chest, begging, desperate for a heartbeat but I couldn’t hear anything. I screamed at him, pleaded with him to wake up. I shook him, trying to force the life back into him. I even sat there stupidly praying to something that I’d never believed in. Begging, pleading, anything; I would give anything for him to wake up.
I don’t know what happened next, how anyone knew to come. Maybe they heard my screams, maybe I called 911. I honestly can’t remember. All I know is what happened after.
Them taking him away.
Being alone.
By the time the autopsy was done, his parents had arrived. They didn’t stay with me. They told me what was happening though. Let me come with them to the morgue. Let me see him one last time. He looked so different then. He wasn’t Sam anymore and I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to him. Couldn’t believe it was him lying there in front of me, his skin pasty white and the faintest tinges of blue on his lips. I didn’t want to touch him like that, didn’t want to have that be my last memory of him.
Eventually they came and spoke to us. They said he had bacterial endocarditis.
I had to ask them, "What is that?"
An infection that spreads to and destroys the heart, they told me.
"What causes it?" I asked.
Bacteria entering the bloodstream through an open wound and making its way to the heart they said. Had he had any surgery or open wounds or dental work recently?
I felt my legs give way.
I felt myself collapse to the floor. Someone tried to help me up, but all I remember is the sound of someone screaming. It wasn’t until later I realised it was me.
They said it was an aggressive strain. They said it had worked quickly. They said it was tough to say whether treatment would have worked, even if we’d gone to the hospital the previous night. They said the dentist would be investigated.
Dental work. I’d chosen the dentist. I’d made the appointment and I’d made him to go. I wanted to tell them I was the one at fault, I was the one to blame.
That it was me. That he had loved me and I had loved him.
That I had killed him.
I had infected and damaged his heart. I had broken poor Sam’s heart. And because of that he’d never stood a chance.
And the only memory, the absolute worst memory I have of the whole awful day. The one I woke up to and which continued to haunt me night after night pulling me from my sleep; was the silence of Sam’s heart when I lay my head on his chest.
The empty silence of nothing at all.




Triskaidekaphobia, a condition characterised by a fear of the number thirteen
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Playlist:
1. How to save a life – The Fray
2. Saviour – 30 Seconds to Mars
3. Timshel – Mumford & Sons
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Despite everything I’ve lived through, it’s ironic that the one thing I’m scared of in life is death. Of course I’ve always been petrified of the death I’ve created, the death I’ve caused, but deep down the one I’m most afraid of, is my own. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave yet. I haven’t done enough, seen enough. I haven’t had enough chances. But most of all, I haven’t been able to fix all of my mistakes. When you live with as much fear and regret as I do, it’s terrifying to think of how it might all end, what my punishment might be. I don’t believe in any kind of God, how could I, but I am scared at what awaits me, at the thought I may have to face them all again.
That I might actually have to explain myself to them.
Over the years I’ve looked back at everything I’ve done and wondered why this had to happen to me, what had I ever done to deserve it? How being an unforseen complication could have resulted in all of this? When I finally worked out what I was doing to people, I tried to protect them, tried so very hard to walk away. But a person can’t live without human contact, without attachment, without love.