I parked the car and it took just a few minutes to get inside and up to the waiting room. My sister, mother and nieces were all waiting anxiously while he was being prepped for surgery.
We waited for just a few minutes before the nurse came to take us back and see him and wish him well. His face and head looked like an almost empty bowl of Fruit-Loops. He was in good spirits as the anesthesiologist gave him a run-down.
Back to the prep waiting room for just a few minutes before we were ushered upstairs to the ICU waiting room. Not sure why. The surgery took place downstairs. It was quieter I guess.
In the waiting room next to us was another family. There were many, they almost filled the room. Their loved one was on life support. They were waiting just a few minutes to hear from their doctor as to the future of their loved one.
We waited patiently for update calls to come via the desk phone. They did. Things were moving along as well as could be expected...for brain surgery. The family next door was restless. In a mater of just a few minutes that all changed.
The doctors came to the family next door. With nurses. And in just a few minutes they explained how they could do no more to save their precious loved one. There was no hope and his life was effectively over. He had just a few minutes to live.
It hit like a tsunami. The wails. The cries. The heart-wrenching sobbing. It was hard to listen to. Our room fell silent. They had just a few minutes to call every member of the family who wasn't there and let them know they that life support would be turned off in just a few minutes.
Call after call. Wailing, crying and sobbing into the phone. The hallway echoed their pain and anguish louder than the carpeted waiting room. They only had a few minutes before their loved one cease to live.
In just a few minutes someone very important to these people would be turned off. Like a switch. By other humans. Who would go home and have dinner tonight. In just a few minutes the hope of talking to, walking with, sharing something with that special someone would be over. Forever.
Two be two, just a few minutes apart, the nurses took the family members back to the room so each could say their goodbyes to a lifeless, beeping, whirring, pumping body. Each returned with greater sobs, louder moans and deeper pain.
After the last of them had said goodbye...it was over. They moved on to another room. I assume a grief counselor. In just a few minutes we expected to hear about my brother-in-law.
The phone rang. It was good news. He came through surgery alright. He will be in recovery for a while. I took a few minutes to hug my family before departing to get my son. In just a few minutes I'd be looking into the bright, thriving eyes of my beautiful, energetic son. In just a few minutes.
