She’s Not Coming Back

She has a ten percent chance of surviving.

When you hear those words something within you shuts down. From somewhere deep inside—a place you’ve never been, never seen, never knew was there—something disappears. It’s like your computer crashing, then rebooting, but when the screen comes up all you see is that little spinning circle.

No more thoughts, no more action, no more memory. Access denied.

Are there warning signs? Do you know a system failure is imminent? My first indication came earlier in the day when the doctor stood in front of me, placed his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “You need to prepare yourself for the worst.”

How do you do that? I was not expecting the worst, and, in fact, hoped for the best. Yes, we were in the emergency room. Yes, she was being transported by helicopter to another hospital that was better equipped to take care of her. Yes, I understood the doctor’s caution she might not make it. But the internal shutdown had already begun.

As the doctor dropped his arms I turned and walked away, past nurses and gurneys and wheelchairs. An open door slid shut behind me, silencing the sound of monitors beeping, keyboards clacking, and voices calling from intercoms. In the parking lot I stood alone, not sure of what came next.

The Loss

I watch from my car as the helicopter lifts her into the air, then turns and glides away, slowly disappearing as if the blue sky is closing around it. I drive home and check on our kids. A friend offers to drive me to the second hospital. We’re on our way. My cell phone rings. She made it. She arrived and her condition is stable. That must be good, right?

We get to the hospital about an hour after the helicopter, and the emergency room receptionist directs us toward intensive care. We trek through a maze of hallways and doors that have limited access, but at each door, as if on cue, medical personnel walk up and type numbers into keypads on the wall, not seeming to notice when we walk behind them through the opened door. No one questions our presence or tells us to stop.

Our journey ends in what looks like a command center, its large desk in the middle of a room with several doorways leading to a network of smaller rooms. I stop at one of the doorways. Lee Ann is in the room, lying motionless on a bed. IV bags hanging on stands drip into tubes running to both of her arms. Doctors and nurses scurry in and out of the room, swarming around the machines and monitors like bees searching for a new nest. I stand there, frozen, my eyes riveted on Lee Ann.

A nurse abruptly halts as if I suddenly materialized in her path. “May I help you?”

I tell her I’m Lee Ann’s husband.

I barely hear, “Wait just a moment.”

A man casually walks up and introduces himself as a doctor. He shakes my hand and says, “We spoke earlier on the phone as you were on your way here.”

He starts filling me in on the details, most of which I heard during our phone conversation earlier. And none of which I hear now. I only hear one statement. Nothing makes it past his first sentence: “She has a ten percent chance of surviving.”

The words hang in the air between us. Everything has slowed down. Nothing is in focus. I look on as if I’m watching a dream sequence playing in a movie. I can’t hear anything. I’m drifting away from the scene …

I blink. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open my eyes, turn my gaze from the room, and look at the doctor.

“Are you okay?”

I mumble that I’m fine.

“Why don’t you let the nurse show you where the waiting room is and we’ll come get you in a few minutes.”

The Ledge

When you stare at death face-to-face you know. I got it. When the news came, I heard it. I processed it. I understood it. I knew exactly what it meant. And I was on a ledge. Standing there, gazing out into nothing, pushing my feet partially off the edge, I wanted to jump. I didn’t know how far I would fall; I didn’t know how hard I would hit; I didn’t know if anything or anyone would catch me.

And I didn’t care.

That ledge is real. You know what I’m talking about. You may have stood on it yourself. Your spouse walks in one day and tells you, “I don’t want to be married anymore.” Or, the doctor points to your X-ray and says, “This is troubling.” Layoffs are rumored at work. Addiction has claimed every corner of your life. Your loved one has passed away. There’s no peace, no calm, no rescue, no escape.

Your only chance for survival, your only hope to keep from making that jump is to deny what’s happening. That deep place … the place you never knew existed … you shut that place down. And the little circle on the screen starts spinning.

No more thoughts, no more action, no more memory. Access denied.

I stood on that ledge for a long time. Alone. Then one day I was in front of the mirror in my bathroom—the same spot where Lee Ann would get ready every morning—with my hands resting on each side of the sink and my eyes gazing into the vacant distance. Suddenly the little circle stopped spinning, and flickers of light started dancing on the screen. Access had been granted.

I heard a voice. Not audible. It came from somewhere deep inside me:

“She’s not coming back.”

The Light

If you’ve been here before you know I’m sharing my journey on this blog site. I’ve written about how to keep believing after the death of a loved one. I’ve talked about what it’s like to suddenly be a widower and to struggle thinking no one else has ever been through this. The stages of grief, letting go, holding on, and moving on are all part of living life after loss.

You have to move away from the ledge. Everything may seem hopeless and dark. But there is hope because the “Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). God promises to be with you. He will rescue you and save you (Jeremiah 15:20).

God has plans for you. He will protect you from harm. He desires to give you hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11).

Even now my mind will sometimes drift toward the ledge.

And the voice echoes.

She’s not coming back.

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Top photo by Fidel Fernando on Unsplash.