They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

111 March 2018

But I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.

I lie there, crying. Scared. And I’m realizing that I just can’t do this to Bruno. He’s been through such shit with me, during all my years as a drug addict and then as a recovering addict. None of it is his fault. Don’t I owe it to him to care for him? I was the one, even more than Roy, who so desperately wanted a child. And now I have one, can I really just abandon him, because it suits me to bail out?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I’m feeling even more light-headed now. Even weaker. I sink back down into the bed, then look at the three envelopes I’ve addressed and pick up the one to Roy. And realize in my addled state I hadn’t sealed it. I try to pull the letter out because I want to rip it up. I’m going to rip all three letters up.

My hands are shaking so much that the moment I get the letter out of the envelope it falls. The paper is so flimsy that I see it, floating down from side to side like a crappy paper aeroplane, and it lands on the floor several feet from my bed.

My brain is all over the place. I need to get up and fetch it. I need to replace the catheter I have pulled out. I need—

The door opens suddenly, and I’m frozen with panic.

The clock says 11.55.

I don’t know why I’m looking at it.

A medic comes in, wearing the scrubs and gauze mask that all the doctors and nurses here wear. A male.

Part of a crash team?

Had I triggered an alarm at the nursing station when I pulled out the catheter?

He shuts the door and walks over towards me. As he reaches me he raises his mask and, with a faint foreign accent that is very definitely not German, he says, ‘Hello, Sandy, remember me?’

I do. It is not a happy memory.