Cardiac arrest. Blood transfusion. Inferior vena cava. The terms filter through my mind. Down through the layers of thought, becoming almost instinctive. His hand lays in mine, limp, cool, fingers delicate but brittle. If he, too, had had a gun, it would hardly have done him any good. I tell myself that, anyway. A cold comfort.
The room is quiet, and I don't break the silence, can't think of the words to say to fill the empty space within me, within this room. The only sound is the whoosh of oxygen through the ventilator, the beeping of the ECG, my own breathing. It is all inadequate, as if cowed by the vacuum left without his baritone to fill it, some clever deduction or even a derisive snort of exasperation at stupidity. The quirk of a brow, twist of a lip.
Hours creep by, slow, viscous. I can't bring myself to move, to leave him, though I am doing nothing here, simply breathing when he can't without machinery, simply reassuring myself of his continued existence, such a close shave though it was. Status critical. Too unstable for any deeper hope to grow. Body too weak for stability. Too much blood escaped from its venous prison for strength to flow back just yet.
Shooter unknown. A masked mystery, perhaps. If I had been faster, had realised sooner, then perhaps some things could be changed. Perhaps he would not be so broken in this bed. Too late for thoughts like that now, let others perform their own deductions, find the root cause of this.
Yet, still, it comes back, time and again over these long hours. Body stretched, spread-eagled on the ground, face pale, relaxed, eyes closed. For a moment, I thought it was the drugs. Damage inflicted over a period of time, heart weakened, sudden death. Then the blood, not gushing, not spurting, not arterial. Venous, oozing, seeping, soaking through perforated skin and fabric, insidiously stealing life. And I imagine how the ECG must have looked, though I try not to. Try to push those fabricated images from my mind. Asystole. Body pale, limp, already cooling. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. No shock advised. All attempts seemingly futile, because asystole. Then a miracle, a breakthrough. Some mysterious, miraculous change, when it seemed all hope was truly lost, seemed he had passed the brink already. I find myself immensely grateful for whatever power brought him back to us, to me, to the world.
But he is not out of the woods yet. So many complications possible, so many things which could arise and shatter this fragile hope. I have to believe that they won't, that all will fly by on gilded wings. It is the only way to preserve any semblance of sanity in the midst of this calm chaos.
Gently, I press my lips to the back of his hand, silently send a prayer to whatever higher power has allowed him this much time, and stroke back his hair. All I am able to do is maintain this vigil, keep up my silent guard. Time is all we have now, rivers of it, lakes. Someone has to bear it out.