The “Accident”
The call came on a Tuesday morning from Memorial Hospital.
Your husband has been in a serious accident. You need to come immediately.
My neighbor drove me; my hands shook too badly to hold the keys.
When I arrived, Charles and Henry were already there. In my desperation, I didn’t ask how they knew first.
“Mom,” Charles said, hugging me with a force that felt rehearsed, “Dad is in bad shape. One of the machines at the shop exploded.”
In the ICU, Ernest was unrecognizable, wrapped in bandages, hooked to a dozen machines.
I took his hand. For a moment, a faint squeeze. He was fighting.
The next three days were hell. Charles and Henry seemed more interested in talking to doctors about insurance policies than comforting their father.
“Mom,” Charles said, “we reviewed Dad’s insurance. He has a life policy for $150,000.”
Why talk about money while he was fighting for life?
On the third day the doctors said, “It’s highly unlikely he will ever regain consciousness.”
Charles whispered, “Mom, Dad wouldn’t want to live like this. He always said he never wanted to be a burden.”
A burden? My husband, their father?
That night, alone in his room, Ernest’s fingers moved again, squeezing mine, lips forming silent words. I called the nurses.
“Involuntary muscle spasms,” they said.
But I knew. He was trying to tell me something.
Two days later, he was gone.
