Coma Chronicles2: the car

undated july/august 2008

I cant get out of my car. I’ve been sitting here for a long time, and cant make myself open the door of the car. It’s warm and I feel sealed in.

It’s morning, before work, and I’m sitting in the parking lot of the hospital where my mother is, also not wanting to get out of the car. I didn’t want to walk down the long corridor of the hospital, I don’t want to smell the hibitane, or the smell of her tracheotomy. I don’t want to see my mother unresponsive when I speak, I don’t want to face my own hope that she will say hello to me. I replay “Hello love” in my head, like she always said it.

I don’t want to see her mouth pull like it does sometimes. A coma is not what they portray on the soap operas – where people just look like they are sleeping. A coma twists your face, changes your body, produces bed sores, wastes your muscles. You open your eyes, sometimes move your head, but you don’t focus. Sometimes your mouth hangs open, your lips dry. Sometimes your body is cold – your hands feel icy. Your hands start to curl at the wrists and sometimes I cant loosen your thumb from it’s position pressed inside your hand.

You are so vulnerable – can’t tell us when something hurts, can’t protect your own privacy or dignity. Ive been playing you music and I’m not sure you like it. Though I suppose I have to stop thinking of you this way. I have to think of you in this state. I’m not sure you can hear the music or feel my touch, or be embarrassed when the nurse forgets to cover you up. The doctors say you cant feel anything – which makes me so angry.

I must get out of the car. Walk down the corridor of the hospital, breathe in the smells and stand next to your bed, unfurling your small hands so that I can hold them.

I’m so tired.