英语阅读：Never Alone

I never liked being alone. It was too quiet, disconcerting. Ever since I was a little girl, I felt uncomfortable on my own. Even as an adult I found it distressing.

One day my son was off at a friend’s house, my daughter was away at her first year of college, and worst of all, my husband, Mike, was in the hospital. I was worried, and alone.

It was a minor surgical procedure. Laparoscopic. Nothing serious. He seemed to come through it fine and would be home the next day. One more day, I thought while getting ready for bed.

I wished my mother could be with me, but she lived hundreds of miles away, and Mike’s folks were away at their summer place. It was vacation time, and all my friends were out of town. I stared at the shadowy wall all night, unable to sleep, feeling the emptiness beside me.

First thing in the morning I took a taxi to the hospital. “How’s . . . everything . . . at . . . home?” Mike asked, his voice weak and labored. I took his hand; his skin was cold and clammy. His eyes were wide. Something was wrong.

A nurse with a cheery smile popped into the room. As she bent over Mike to take his vital signs, her smile disappeared. Before I knew it, the room was full of worried doctors and nurses. I was pushed back away from his bedside, against the cold cement block wall.

“Pulse is rapid.” “Blood pressure elevated,” I heard the nurses say. What was going on?

Suddenly Mike was whisked out of the room. One of the nurses noticed me standing alone by the wall, my knees shaking. “Your husband is having trouble breathing. We’re taking him for an MRI. We think he has blood clots in his lungs.” She looked into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry! That’s not what I wanted to hear. What about “Everything’s going to be fine?” or “It’s nothing serious!” Blood clots in the lungs? That was serious!

I stepped into the hall and stared. What did I do? Where was the waiting room? I didn’t even know which way to go.

“You should go to the ICU waiting room,” a nurse said, noticing my confusion. “Second floor.”

I went there and sat with other quiet, anxious strangers. I spotted a phone on the wall, and I fished for quarters in my pocketbook. The first call was to Mike’s parents. They’d come home right away, but it would take a while. I called my mother, wishing she wasn’t so far away. Then I called my daughter, Kate. I didn’t want to worry her. But she’d always been a rock for me. It helped a little just to hear her voice. When I hung up, however, I choked back the tears.

I started to put away my pocketbook, but I had one last call to make. I dialed the number of my church. An answering machine picked up my call. Should I leave a message? What should I say? We hadn’t been attending long so I didn’t know many people. Finally I just said that Mike was in the hospital and had taken a turn for the worse. Maybe they could say some prayers.

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