It was 7 years ago today that I took her life. In so many ways it seems like it was just yesterday. I can practically smell the sterilized hospital. Hear the click of shoes, the hum of voices. Feel the resignation in the room. I still have the lump in my throat and the heavy weight on my heart. The heart is such a weak little organ, after all.
I know exactly where I was at this moment that day. What I was doing. Can retrace my steps from the moment I woke up. It’s funny because usually I’m such a dumbass, I can’t remember what I had for dinner the night before, if I had anything. But that day, and my actions, and their effect are indelibly etched in my brain. The doctors buzzed about. The nurses swarmed. And I waited. Waited for the end to come. Waited for yet another thing to make me feel like a piece of shit.
I seem to wait for things a lot – I’ve realized that in the last 7 years. I have done a bit of growing. I know I spend far too much time dwelling on the past. But I also spend too much time waiting.
I wait for people – even ones not worth waiting for.
I wait for literary agents to respond to queries about my manuscript.
I wait for my sudden longings to put fingers to keyboard or brush to canvas and create.
I wait for calls, texts, emails.
I wait at traffic lights.
I wait for the dermatologist to tell me I have skin cancer. Again.
I wait to catch a glimpse of my sweet boy on campus before he spots me and heads to my car.
I wait for my eldest to come home from college, so I can hold him close and see him tucked safely in bed at night.
But today I only wait for that fateful hour to start, where I can count down the 38 minutes it took for me to watch my friend die. How unlucky was she at the end – alone, but for me in the room? We waited together.