It was about 4:00 pm on May 12, 2018 when I received an unexpected phone call from my somewhat estranged Dad who was living in Edmonton. "Hey Dad", I nervously answered. He then explained that he had just received a call from St. Paul's Hospital in Vancouver and that Steven was in the ICU from a drug overdose and that he was in an induced coma. He told me to call my mum. He may have said more, but that's all I heard. A hot, electric flash buzzed through my body as I sat there stunned; the hair on my head felt prickled at the roots. I was looking at my then nine year old son laying on the living room floor as he was building lego. My energy must have been felt by him, because he looked up at me and asked me what was wrong. I replied in a monotone voice, "I have to fly home to Vancouver, right now". I ended the call with my Dad and called my mum who lives in Vancouver. She answered, I told her I had to tell her some scary news and to sit down. I relayed my Dad's message, she sobbed, I sobbed, our call ended, I texted MyGuy, let the shit-show begin.
At that time, I lived three hours east of the Toronto airport in rural Ontario. I remember feeling like I was in a dream and I felt overwhelmingly confused and dazed, although I was fiercely focused on getting to MyBruv's bedside. I hurriedly packed a suitcase full of nonsensical items: several t-shirts that I didn't even normally wear, a pair of runners, my toothbrush and toiletries, way too many pairs of underwear, a couple pairs of sweats, a few pairs of socks and a pair of leggings. Nothing made sense. MyGuy rushed home early from work, put my suitcase in his car and off we drove to TO to get me on the 10:00 pm flight to Van. I don't think I spoke the entire drive. The sludge-lump of intense worry and grief that was stuck in my throat wouldn't permit me. I kissed my boy and MyGuy goodbye and boarded my flight.
I arrived at Saint Paul's Hospital around 1:30 am. I purposefully walked into Steven's room, pulling my suite case behind me and the first thing I did was let out an audible, "Oh Steven" and proceeded to check for track marks. I didn't know he was using heroin again, so I was trying to make some sense of what happened. And there it was; the tell-tale sign I was all too familiar with: a red line, about the length of my index finger and the width of my pinky, underneath the wrist restraints, on the inner top part of his left wrist. I wasn't afraid to touch him or hug him or lay my head on his chest atop the cooling blankets he was covered in. I asked his nurse, "did he do this on purpose?", she looked confused and responded, "I don't think so, he went to a friend for help". I stood beside him for hours, until his nurse had finally convinced me that I needed to get some sleep. I lightly slept for a couple hours in the ICU public waiting room on the couch with my suitcase tucked behind my knees and my purse strap entwined through my ankles. I would not leave him; my beloved Bruv, my best friend.
At that time, I lived three hours east of the Toronto airport in rural Ontario. I remember feeling like I was in a dream and I felt overwhelmingly confused and dazed, although I was fiercely focused on getting to MyBruv's bedside. I hurriedly packed a suitcase full of nonsensical items: several t-shirts that I didn't even normally wear, a pair of runners, my toothbrush and toiletries, way too many pairs of underwear, a couple pairs of sweats, a few pairs of socks and a pair of leggings. Nothing made sense. MyGuy rushed home early from work, put my suitcase in his car and off we drove to TO to get me on the 10:00 pm flight to Van. I don't think I spoke the entire drive. The sludge-lump of intense worry and grief that was stuck in my throat wouldn't permit me. I kissed my boy and MyGuy goodbye and boarded my flight.
I arrived at Saint Paul's Hospital around 1:30 am. I purposefully walked into Steven's room, pulling my suite case behind me and the first thing I did was let out an audible, "Oh Steven" and proceeded to check for track marks. I didn't know he was using heroin again, so I was trying to make some sense of what happened. And there it was; the tell-tale sign I was all too familiar with: a red line, about the length of my index finger and the width of my pinky, underneath the wrist restraints, on the inner top part of his left wrist. I wasn't afraid to touch him or hug him or lay my head on his chest atop the cooling blankets he was covered in. I asked his nurse, "did he do this on purpose?", she looked confused and responded, "I don't think so, he went to a friend for help". I stood beside him for hours, until his nurse had finally convinced me that I needed to get some sleep. I lightly slept for a couple hours in the ICU public waiting room on the couch with my suitcase tucked behind my knees and my purse strap entwined through my ankles. I would not leave him; my beloved Bruv, my best friend.
Krispy, keep on writing. It's vital for your Healing Hearts. Love Maria
ReplyDelete