Long ago, she sat waiting, perfectly calm, strong, feet square on the floor. Family were there behind an invisible barrier, their voices like a TV playing in another room. It had been four hours since she felt sure his heart had stopped and there was something wrong. Wrong enough for the nurse to come out saying, "It will be longer than we thought" and "Everything's going just fine." The lies they like to tell family to avoid a scene reeking of fear or exposing the virus of grief to others.
Still perfectly calm, strong, feet square on the floor, she let herself drift up, silencing the useless chatter and clamor of well-meaning watchers by closing her eyes. She knew the way as if she had traveled it many times in her sleep. Light and drifting, she left the waiting room, looking down at corridors until she saw the door from above- just a strip of wood really, like two lines on a floor plan. And then, she was in the operating room, machines humming, music playing, looking down at a heart laid open- his heart, her heart.
It was no surprise he hovered there also looking down, not the full form of a man, but the suspended energy of his consciousness. This is what she must look like to him. They became aware of each other much like the glance of love when they first met. No voices here, but thoughts exchanging across the short distance between them.
As they watched silently together, urgency and danger began to float upward from the hearts of those working below. Movement quickened, and the grace of a team who had worked together for many years became chaotic with anxiety. His thought struck her softly, like a light slap on the face of one who has passed out. "I think I must go." The sense of the thought sad, resigned, but not fearful. "It's not your time." Her thought, a simple declaration, not cajoling or pleading. So matter of fact.
Images of their life together played on the walls around him; she saw them through the eyes of his consciousness, tender scenes, regrets, unfulfilled dreams, silly and happy times. He watched them and thought, "That body is tired, it has been too long . . . " She cut him off with a silence so deafening he had to stop. They looked down together again, curious, each in their own thoughts, like observers rather than participants in their own lives. She repeated, "It's not your time, your heart is strong, it will beat again." She felt him waver, but the disbelief was also strong, the weariness of resignation returned. His spirit sagged. She tried again, turning the full countenance of her soul in his direction, "You have the strength to fight for this." She could feel him drifting higher, away, apologetically.
Like a reach to someone hanging from a treacherous cliff, she tethered him, held him there, entreating now, "It is not your time, I can feel it." Something pulled at him- a lost longing for peace he had given up a long time ago. Her strength, not force, not power, but the pure essence of love between them held him fast, so he could go no further. He repeated, "It's not my time?"
She knew it, he was confused, ready to leave if that was what was meant to be. Putting some trust in her belief, he pulled back toward her, snapping the forceful grip that meant to draw him to the other side. Rebounding and falling downward, he sent out a goodbye, and was gone, back into the body, asleep again, without knowledge of her presence.
The motion below slowed as it does when danger passes and people breathe again into the moment of relief. And then, she was back suddenly in the waiting room, perfectly calm, strong, feet square on the floor.
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