Chapter 8

Dear Dave,

When does Tuesday stop and Wednesday begin? It begins with you, in a coma, on the hospital bed of the emergency room in Fargo, North Dakota. That’s a sentence I never thought I’d use to describe our lives. You are wheeled, unconscious, to scan after scan, and I, left behind in the room, huddled in a fetal position, am wondering if you are dead or not. The doctors can’t figure out what the hell is going on in your brain.

They tried several times to rouse Dave that morning. When the neurologist entered, I felt a sense of relief to have him nearby, to have him in charge. His face appeared tired yet fully focused; he asked me how I was doing and then he turned to Dave.

He leaned over the bed and pressed his hand firmly onto Dave’s chest. “Dave, open your eyes.” The doctor said it several times, his voice loud and authoritative. Dave showed no response.

We took turns that morning trying to wake Dave. They had me talk to him, hold his hand, apply pressure to his chest in the same circular motion, all to no avail. We’ve all heard the stories of people who wake from comas and tell their loved ones that they felt their presence, heard their words, even as their bodies lay motionless. In case that would be the story with Dave, I spoke to him all morning. I talked about our baby. I played some of his favorite music. He did not respond.

The hour neared for my parents and Dave’s parents to land, and I kept my cellphone close, knowing they would call when they were approaching. At quarter past eleven, the doctor returned to the hospital room. “Let’s try again.” He took his place on the right side of the bed while I took Dave’s left hand.

“Dave, open your eyes.” He pressed his palm into Dave’s chest and made circles on Dave’s sternum. My focus was pulled away from the bed momentarily when my cellphone began to ring. “Dad cell” showed up on the caller ID. But before I could answer, I saw something I had not been expecting: Dave’s eyes fluttered, blinking, and then, the miraculous happened. Dave opened his eyes. The three of us in there—doctor, nurse, and wife—all reacted with giddy jumping up and down.

Dave looked around before his eyes landed on me. “Hi, my love!” I exclaimed, staring into my favorite green eyes. I distinctly remember back to when Dave and I first began dating, how much I loved his eyes. He has these thick, long eyelashes (which I always hoped he’d bequeath to our daughter) that surround almond-shaped eyes, green with flecks of yellow. I have never stopped loving those eyes. And in that moment, looking into them, I burst into a tearful smile. “Hi, honey! You’re awake!”

Dave looked at me, wordless, his expression vacant. He blinked his eyes, but showed absolutely nothing with them. I slid closer to the bed. “You’re in Fargo, North Dakota, honey. You had an accident on the plane. But you are safe here. You’re getting the best medical care possible. And I’m here with you, and your parents and Andy are here. They just called, they are going to be here any minute.”

Several blinks. A blank expression. No words.

“Let’s see if he can follow a command,” the doctor said. “Dave, squeeze your wife’s hand.”

Dave blinked again, his expression still devoid of all understanding or feeling. I leaned closer, holding his gaze with mine. “Squeeze my hand, honey. Squeeze my hand if you know how much I love you.”

Dear Dave,

I asked you to squeeze my hand if you knew how much I loved you. You squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.