Fateful Hindrance

17. I Turn Into An Emotional Wreck

It wasn’t how I wanted the first time seeing John again to go.  I knew that it would have happened soon enough, but I didn’t think just the sight of him would freeze me up.  I thought that I would have enough control to stay back and watch out for him, not want to go running after him, screaming at him that I was really, truly here, that I never meant to hurt him, and I never wanted anything but to keep him and everyone else I loved safe. 

But no.  Instead, the first conversation I had with him would have to be when he was bleeding in my arms, thinking that I was a ghost coming to take him to wherever it was that we went to after this life. 

The look on his face when he saw me, even with the knife still embedded in his chest, was one that I would never forget.  It was burned into my memories just like the one of him watching me die in his arm, crying and screaming out my name as I was drifting away from him for what he thought would be forever. 

The word ‘forever’ had me thinking of a different kind as I played with the ring on my finger. 

Whenever I saw him again and he was conscious, I wondered what he would think when he saw me then.  I knew that, no matter what, I would have to convince him that yes, I was really and truly there in front of him, not just a figment of his imagination.  Then when I finally had him convinced – maybe even after giving him a kiss or two that I’d been waiting weeks for – he’d be completely pissed.  I smiled at that, thinking of the yelling and fury that he would hurl toward me.  Why would I smile?  Because I missed it. 

Miss fighting?  Of course.  Because fighting him meant that we weren’t perfect.  We had our differences and wanted the other to see our side of the story, in which we would do anything to try and make happen.  Fighting brought out the passion for what we believed in and loved…and it just made us stronger.  Because fighting usually led to one or both of us understanding just a little bit more about the other. 

After his anger at me for doing this to him subsided, even just a little, I hoped he would forgive me.  I didn’t know how long it would take – maybe minutes, hours, days, weeks, or years – but I just wanted him to forgive me. 

Never forget, though, because I knew neither of us would be able to.

 ...

My nightmare of losing John forever was about to come true yet again when we made it to the hospital. 

Somehow, Tory had managed to catch up to the ambulance in time to pull up just as they were pulling John from the back.  The paramedics were yelling in Italian, speaking so fast that I couldn’t catch their words to understand them. 

But what I could understand was John’s heart had stopped on the ride over. 

One man was straddling him on the stretcher, giving him CPR and yelling for them to hurry, as another put pressure on his chest wound to staunch the bleeding.  The once white gauze was bright red and the blood was dripping down from John’s fingertips, which hung lifeless over the edge.  A trail of blood followed their path on the concrete and inside on the white tiled floor.  I couldn’t help myself as I ran after them, only to be blocked by two nurses, telling me that I wasn’t allowed past the sliding doors that separated me from John. 

I didn’t care if my Italian was still a little rusty.  I still needed to know what was going on.  “Is he going to be okay?”

“We can’t discuss patient information unless you’re family,” one of the nurses started.

Ryan cut her off, taking my left hand and lifting it up for her to see the ring on my left hand.  “She’s his wife,” he told her.  “And I’m her brother.  Now, tell us if he’s going to be okay or not.”