Phoenix II

We were all etched in glass. We stood there, sixth-story fading sun piercing through a slate sky into our room at St. Joseph’s Medical Plaza. I am standing there in front of him, watching, not being able to imagine his frail frame being strapped on to the edge of a medical helicopter; our views above Phoenix. So different, so urgent. So now and preasent. There was no waiting. Fuck the ambulances – they were too slow and we needed this, now. We flew over Indian School Steele Park, waiting for the crash. It happened here, once. I haven’t seen the family since Christmas. We discussed my follow-up CT Scan tomorrow morning; we discussed awaiting his neurological tests for the next morning. We call room service for food – they have room service now. His parents are stronger. Much fucking stronger than me. But he is more stubborn then all of us. We sit back, waiting – for nothing – but waiting, being here in this moment, nurses paged every five minutes to different rooms with different levels of urgency. We watch the History Channel. We watch a documentary on Armageddeon. We watch Pastor James Haggy in front of a green screened image of the Western Wall. He tells us the importance of the Holy City.

“Are you the boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

I walk out to Thomas for a cigarette. The hospital is non-smoking. His sister joins me. I call my mom, my dog has been put down. I can’t talk anymore, I hang up. I walk past the chapel then through the doors – it’s a weird feeling knowing exactly where to go so deep in such a large complex.

More meds come and are pumped into an IV. Arrangements are made to move him, since he is immobile. Move his apartment next week. His dad and I will do it. We will pick a humid day. His family around, I kiss his lips goodbye for the night, and I hate myself for having to leave. And the night ends in bed alone, wanting to give anything for the boy who is sick to be here with me tonight. It ends alone, watching CNN and Family Guy, thinking of the jokes he would laugh at if he were here in bed with me tonight.

Tomorrow begins a new day, back at a different hospital, another scan, more meds. Something for the anxiety.

We were etched in glass.

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