TWELVE HOURS OF LOVE UNSPOKEN
By
AllyinthekeyofX
It's hard not to notice him that first time. It's just after 6pm and he is shouting at the nursing staff, refusing to relinquish his hold on the tiny red-headed woman he is cradling in his arms, clutching her to him as the blood on her face transfers to the white cotton of his shirt, drenching them both in a sea of crimson that blooms and grows with every second that passes. There is in fact, so much blood it's difficult for me to figure out the source from my vantage point.
She is making an ugly, gurgling, choking sound even as her body jerks against his. Her head is thrown back and he is desperately trying to still her movement lest she injures herself further, his frantic pleas to the nursing staff increasing in volume until he is practically screaming at them.
He is in full panic mode; not thinking at this point, simply reacting to the situation he has found himself in and although I'm sure there is a small part of him that recognises that nothing can be done until he allows them to take her from him, sheer primal terror is preventing him from releasing her.
My throat tightens at the sight of him as he finally allows the attending ER staff to take over, the expression on his face one of such yearning as she is transferred to the waiting gurney and wheeled away from him that it literally takes my breath away. His final keening cry reverberating around the large area around us before he collapses to his knees on the linoleum floor that is now speckled with her blood, covering his face with hands that are equally as marked. His shoulders are shaking and even though he makes no sound, I know from bitter experience that he is weeping. Hopeless, uncontrollable distress that has no sound; the most painful kind I think.
No one moves. No one reacts. As though he is a wounded animal who might attack at any moment and for just a few heartbeats, it's like time has simply stopped.
And then I force myself to move; to cross the space between us, my training coming to the fore as I pull a pair of surgical gloves from the pocket of my tunic and slip them on to protect myself from the blood that covers him. Second nature in an environment such as this.
"Sir?"
Tentatively I place my hand on his shoulder, carefully not exerting too much pressure through my touch, but just enough to get his attention because although I don't consider myself a medical professional, I have lived though more moments like this than I can recall and I know that right now, gentleness is the key.
I can't help but wince though when he slowly slides his hands from his face, leaving streaks of her blood against his skin and I wonder suddenly if she is dying; that the next time he sees her it will be to say a final goodbye.
Please God I pray not.
His eyes are puffy, the light from the overheads making him squint slightly as he regards me from his kneeling position, and all I see is the confusion that radiates from him, as though he isn't quite sure how he got there.
Mild shock I think. But nothing that requires any intervention other than a little comfort and care on my part and by the look of him, probably sooner rather than later.
"Can you get up for me?"
He nods and as I hold out my hand for him to take, I am surprised to find I am shaking.
8pm
He is pacing the small room, reminding me of a caged animal denied it's right for liberty and even more palpable is the tension in his body; his movement is measured and intense, the repetition both dizzying and slightly soothing at the same time. Twelve steps until he reaches the wall. Turn. Twelve more steps back. Turn. Back to the wall. Turn. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
He has paused only once, when the door opened and a brief flare of anticipation danced across his face, anticipation replaced all too rapidly with the realisation that no news of his partner was, as yet forthcoming. And so the pacing resumed.
I had been surprised to learn that she was his partner – work partner that is – because I would have put money on them being in a relationship that transcended the boundaries of mere professional friendship. More surprised still when he identified them both as Federal Agents, especially given the fact that his partner is so gravely ill. I have had experience liaising with Cancer patients and their loved ones – more experience than I ever hoped to have in fact – but given the prognosis of her particular type of cancer I am astounded beyond measure that not only is she still working, but that she is in such a high pressure occupation.
But my role here is to listen, to help and support not to judge anyone's decisions so I have kept my own counsel and aside from general chit chat I haven't pressed him. Not that I think it would garner too much of a response from him anyway because he has barely even acknowledged my presence for the past hour or so. His every focus is on her and when he does speak, it's to demand why everything is taking so long, why there is no information, where are the fucking doctors and what the hell are they doing?
He had immediately apologised for his profanity to which I had assured him that, during my sixty plus years on the planet, I had heard much, much worse. My comment had earned me a troubled half-smile in response and not for the first time I was struck by how desperately sad this man is. He can't be much more than forty years old and yet his soul seems old somehow, defeated and struggling to find his way. And the guilt; the guilt shrouds him like a heavy blanket, all encompassing as it weighs him down and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the guilt he carries is somehow connected to his partner.
I have probably spent way too much time with him. But as a volunteer I can pretty much spread my time as I see fit, offering comfort and support where I can and sometimes, in situations such as this, it just seems appropriate to remain with a single individual on a more prolonged basis. Especially when he is as potentially volatile as this man is; because he is desperate and desperate men do foolish things.
"Agent Mulder?"
The pacing ceases just momentarily.
"Can I get you anything?"
He frowns at me, cocking his head slightly as though he had completely forgotten I was in the room, running a hand through his hair which spikes up in all directions.
"I'm sorry. I just need to know she's okay."
And as I watch him begin to move again, I realise that my habitual detachment has taken flight because suddenly I find myself desperately needing it for him too.
12pm
I finally stepped away from Agent Mulder around thirty minutes ago; taking my leave of him with assurances that I would check back on him through the night and for him to not hesitate to ask one of the nursing staff to page me if he needed anything. And now, as I take a sip of the strong black coffee I have gratefully poured for myself that is ever present and much required in any busy hospital, I allow myself to ruminate on the last few hours.
Word had finally come through that Agent Scully was out of immediate danger and had been moved up to the CCU. Obviously no stranger to hospital terminology Agent Mulder's all too visible relief that she had escaped a spell in the ICU was painfully obvious and not for the first time I found myself pondering the true nature of their relationship.
I had accompanied him up to the CCU where he was granted a short visit with his partner. Way past visiting hours of course but I think both his desperation to be with her and his FBI status had a lot to do with the fact his request was authorised and in all my years I don't think I have ever seen a person's demeanour change as rapidly as his did when he finally walked in to that room.
He had already been warned that she was heavily sedated, a nasal canular forcing pure oxygen in to her lungs due to the respiratory distress of earlier, caused, we had been told, by her aspiration of the blood that had streamed down her throat even as it was streaming down her face and making ugly patterns on her partner's shirt. And as I watched him walk towards her, I was struck anew at just how tiny, how fragile she appeared to be; her skin so pale in the soft blue light of the CCU that it seemed to be almost translucent, the dark shadows beneath her closed eyes contrasting sharply and lending her an almost ghostly air. And yes, she looked sick. As sick as anyone I have ever seen in fact, the gravity of her illness indisputable to me as I regarded her from my position just inside the doorway.
But as I glanced at his face I realised he wasn't seeing her in the same way I did – that the view of a stranger in no way matched his own.
Because all I saw was love. A deep, all encompassing adoration emanating from within him that was so palpable I could almost reach out and capture it between my fingers. And when he reached her, stretching his hand to gently smooth a few errant strands of her vibrant hair away from where it had fallen against her porcelain white skin, there was such reverence, such respect and such raw emotion there that I had to turn away lest I betray the tears that were beginning to film my eyes because the moment he touched her, the tension just melted from his body just as though a switch had been flicked. He had dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers, caressing her cheek with his thumb as he tracked his lips lightly across her face until they reached the shell of her ear. I don't know what he whispered to her exactly and I was suddenly aware that perhaps I was witnessing something that wasn't mine to see, turning away from them both to give him privacy even though I knew that he had ceased to recognise my presence in the room with them.
My eyes had met and held those of the nurse who had shown us to the room – a woman who, from past experience I knew, guarded the wellbeing of the patients in her care like a tigress protecting her cubs and I knew by the expression on her face that she saw it too. That connection of souls that happens once in a lifetime only if a person is extraordinarily lucky, a love so pure, so spiritual and so unfathomable that it will mark those who witness it so deeply that they will be forever changed by it. And at the same moment, I was overcome by a wave of sadness as I realised that despite the connection they shared, that inevitably, fate had cruelly dictated that her cancer will separate them sooner rather than later and that right now, hospital policy, frankly, could go to hell.
6am
I had checked on them before leaving to go home, unsurprised to see him half on and half off the bed as he cradled her in his arms, smoothing his palm over and over her hair in a rhythmic motion that I think comforted him as much as it did her. She was barely awake, still groggy from the sedation, but I caught a glimpse of china blue as she smiled sleepily at something he whispered, snuggling deeper in to him as he dropped a kiss to the crown of her head, before closing her eyes again with a contented sigh.
He saw me watching him, a smile of gratitude sent across the few feet that separated us and one which sliced ten years off him in one fell swoop.
And for the first time in the five years since my husband, my own soul mate was taken from me, I won't spend this day yearning for red roses and all that can never be; because the gift I was given last night was far more precious and infinitely more elusive.
Because to witness pure love is to witness a miracle and today, before I visit the grave of my husband, I will enter the church and pray that God might, just might, grant them a miracle of their own.
I smile at the thought and speak softly so as not to wake the woman sleeping in his arms, wanting to remind him of the occasion of this date.
"Happy Valentine's Day Agent Mulder."
And I'm still smiling as I leave.
End