"Andy, Andy what's wrong?" asks Sharon.
Her lips are moving. She must be talking to me. I wonder what she's saying. I can't focus on anything but her eyes. What's happening to me? I can't wrap my mind around her words. I can't … Something's wrong. I can tell by the look in her eyes.
"I'm right here with you. Just look at me. The paramedics are coming. Please, please keep looking at me," says Sharon.
She has worry in her eyes, just like that time I had to tell her that I'd turned my back for only a second and Rusty was gone. I felt terrible for letting her down. I expected to see anger and disappointment; instead, I saw understanding and reassurance in her eyes when she told me it wasn't my fault.
"Andy, you're going to be okay. Do you hear me?
Damn, she looks like she could cry. I hate that. I don't want to make her sad. I want to make her as happy as she made me when she suggested being the buffer at my daughter's wedding. She had so much light in her eyes when she told me that she liked weddings. I can still picture how her eyes slid away from mine for just a second before she looked at me again and suggested that I introduce her as my friend. Her uncomplicated suggestion filled me with gratitude, and made me feel better about being around people not happy to see me. She gave me so much understanding and reassurance that day, but most importantly she gave me her friendship.
"No, no! Open your eyes, Andy. Stay with me," Sharon pleads.
I was so happy to be able to give her my understanding and reassurance when she questioned herself after the suicide of the man who thought he was being televised. When the ordeal was over, I couldn't stand to see the sadness and uncertainty in her eyes. I had to tell her that she did great.
"You have to open your eyes now. You have to be okay," she says.
I've made her sad and uncertain again. Why does this keep happening? I don't want to see that frightened look like she had in her eyes when I collapsed in her office. I want to see her eyes sparkle like that Christmas we surprised her with a party in the break room. She was thrilled to see her little Christmas village. I want more Christmases with her. I want more everything with her.
"Don't leave me. Please, please open your eyes. I need you," she whispers.
# # #
Her eyes are the first thing I see when I open mine. I see relief through the tears she's holding back. I want to touch her face, but I'm so tired. I can't move.
"You're in the recovery room," she says. "You had a heart attack; you had to have surgery, but you're going to be fine."
She's giving me her understanding and reassurance again. I want to ask questions, but I can't talk around this tube in my throat. That's okay. I don't need to talk. I just need to keep looking into her eyes. I know everything is going to be okay. I can tell by the look in her eyes.