I remember the sounds more vividly than anything else. The humming machinery, muted beeping in various cadences. But all hushed. Like the very atmosphere was aware that lives were deciding whether to continue or end. It's one of the most intimidating moments of my life. Walking that hall and waiting for the nurse to show us where to go. The lights were dim. The air warmer here than the rest of the building.

She stopped me outside one of the glass boxes and whispered to wait here for the doctor first. I wasn't sure I wanted to speak to the doctor. It would have been much easier to armor myself against the flood of information I knew was coming our way. How does anyone function under these circumstances? This is more than a person should ever be expected to withstand.

The glass door slid open and a white coated doctor led me to the small consult area. The first surgery went as well as could be hoped. The next would be in a couple of days as long as the swelling didn't cause any issues. The coma would last until after the second surgery and then they will reevaluate. The remarks stuck like a list of facts that had to be memorized. Impersonal. Statistical. Like reading out of a medical journal.

He excused himself after waiting for any questions and receiving none. Shock is a strange creature. I had digested only pieces of what he'd said. I didn't know what half the words meant. And I couldn't bring myself to ask. I would suffocate if I asked. Asking would allow reality to force itself to be acknowledged.

I walked numbly back to the room we had come from. Each room was a glass box visible from the central station. No back rooms here. No patient left unobserved and all of them within seconds of response if that life decided to try to slip through their fingers. The team even looked ready to drag their charges back from the edge of life if they began to stray. Competent, quiet, and harsh in their way.

I hesitated and watched the goings on in the hall, delaying reality a bit more. I wanted to be anywhere but here. But there was nowhere else to be. I turned to watch inside the room. A nurse was standing at the beside changing the IV bag. He blocked the view of the bed for a moment. A step to the side later and there was a clear view of a person covered to their chin in white linen blankets. Various hoses and cables running from under the blankets to the machines.

Everyone always claims "how much smaller so-and-so looked" when ill or injured. Diminished. It's the first thing normally said. And now I realized that it's because that image sticks with you. This person that was so big and overflowing with energy and vitality has been diminished. It's the perfect word for it. There's no eye contact, no body language. This object laying in this bed deciding whether to live or die has quit communicating in all ways while it sorts its affairs. And it doesn't particularly care for your input on the matter. Your job is to simply come to terms with whatever outcome.

I slipped through the door and walked up to the bed. I'm still not sure what I needed to do. What I was being driven to do. So, all I did was sit. I sat at the bedside and stared at the green lines tracing over the monitors. Watched the nurses changing bags every so often. Asking me if I needed a blanket. Some coffee. Would I like a meal delivered. It was like life kept moving. But that was impossible. Existence itself had stopped. They just didn't know it.

There were no windows. No sense of time passing. Meals weren't on a schedule in the ICU. It ran on it's own agenda without the concerns of cafeteria hours or visitor hours. No conveniences spared. I'm sure I ate. And slept. Or at least lost consciousness periodically. Nurses and doctors came and went. They gave me information in that foreign language that I still not dared ask questions about. The only thing I could compare this room to was purgatory. Sitting in nothingness waiting for judgement. Limbo.

The second surgery was due to start. I was led to another consult room furnished with every comfort. Books, snacks, television, and reclining lounge chairs for napping. Purgatory adjacent. But with no background murmuring or beeping. The silence was it's own brand of hell. But I couldn't care enough to turn the television on.

Hours went by. I knew this since there was a digital clock helpfully hung near the door. No ticking allowed here. Someone knocked quietly on the door and cracked it open. The surgeon came in and sat opposite of me. A nurse came in as well. The doctor looked me in the eye. I registered the words in bits and pieces. More foreign words that I didn't want explained. The important ones were clear. The surgery hadn't went to plan. There had been "complications." They had done "everything they could" and were "truly sorry". That it "had been a long shot from the start".

The wait in Purgatory was over. There was nothing left to judge. No appeals to make. The gavel had fallen and the verdict was in. Now I had to come to terms with that outcome. Reality was beating down the walls to take back it's dominion.