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POST FOUR: ICU2 = I SEE YOU, TOO


By the third day, word had got out to family members and both my and Steven's friends that he was in the ICU. I had made the dreaded call to Steven's adult daughter, kept my Dad (he was ill and couldn't fly. He passed away less than a month after MyBruv did) steadily informed of any progress or lack thereof and answered all 1,295,885 texts and calls. Obviously, this number is a complete exaggeration, but let me tell you, the voice and text updates were nearly as exhaustive as the situation itself. I felt like every time I looked down to answer a text, I would miss something. Anything. And it was nearly anxiety inducing. 

 I seldom left his side. It’s not that I didn’t wholeheartedly appreciate all the concern, but I was in a state I had never been in. I felt an intense feeling of hope, mixed with crippling worry. I was hyper-focused on Steven.  I just wanted to sit beside him and intensely analyze any movement. I had never really studied another person like this before: I noticed every, tiny detail of his face, the shape of his fingers, how neatly trimmed his nails were, the perfect shape of his eyebrows... they hadn’t been plucked or waxed, they were naturally perfect. I remember thinking, how lucky he was that he had hardly any wrinkles… I’m five years younger than he is and we look the same age, the lucky shit. I shaved his face, washed his hair, slicked his mohawk back (yes, with product), washed between his fingers, unfurled his hands and washed his palms, his face, neck, arms chest and feet. I made sure he was properly moisturized: all things I'm positive he would have appreciated. 

I continued to open his eyes with my thumb and forefinger and asked him if he could see me. These words became my most repetitive phrase over the next couple weeks, “Hey Bruv, it’s Krispy, can you see me? I see you, Steven. I’m right here”. It was on Day Five that our Cousin noticed on his hospital band that he was in ICU2. In my mind, that was “a sign”… he sees me, but he can’t respond to me. My brain was willing to take a serendipitous moment and make it factual. Feelings of intense hope and crippling worry have a way of welcoming any ounce of relief. I literally ran down to Granville Street to a tattoo shop I know, and got ICU2 tattooed on my right wrist, in the same spot where it was on his wrist and in the same font as the hospital band. 

But wait. 

If he CAN see me, but he CAN’T respond to me, does that confirm what his Doctor had said about the lack of brain functionality he’s likely to demonstrate, should he be kept alive? I knew I would have a very difficult and heart-wrenching decision to make: to remove his breathing tube and let him pass away, or keep him hooked up and have him in full-time care with no semblance of his personality and unable to care for himself. Having to make this decision, at the time, felt like cruel and unusual punishment. 
 




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Location: New Westminster, BC New Westminster, BC, Canada

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