Conor's PoV -
Everything's a blur after I pass out. After the truck hit me it's like I went to sleep instantly but mere moments later I was awake again. I couldn't open my eyes or move or talk but I was awake. I could hear everything around me. The voices of the paramedics shouting, "He has a pulse, get him to the ambulance!"
The sounds of sirens. The beeping of machines as the paramedics hook me up. I also feel the immense pain. My whole body hurts. Particularly my legs which must have been crushed under the truck.
I eventually make it to the hospital. I'm rushed to a room where once again I'm hooked up to machines that keep me alive. IVs are put in me. Quarts of blood are pumped into me. Then after I'm stable, I'm left alone. I have plenty of time to think. I think about Devin and my family. I have to live for them. I have to wake up!
Hours pass and I worry. I wonder where Devin is, he's probably worrying about me after I didn't make it home. He'll call my family, right? They'll eventually find out that I'm here, right? Then I hear a knock. For the millionth time I try to speak. I try to say, "Come in." Anything to know my body still works but nothing comes out.
"Conor..."
"I'm so sorry," it's Devin.
I want to tell him not to feel bad. Don't be sorry but of course I can't. However, I feel relief knowing that he's here. I feel him take my hands then I feel a soft kiss. I want to kiss him back. Then I hear his heart breaking sobbing. He runs his fingers through my hair. I want to nuzzle into him and cuddle like we always have. I want to let him know that I'm here. I'm trapped inside my own body! Devin, how can I show you that I'm here?
Devin's PoV -
I sob and hold onto Conor for hours. Then a nurse walks in, "I'm sorry but visiting hours end in five minutes."
"Thanks," I mumble.
She smiles and leaves. I wipe my tearful eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow, Con, as soon as I can," I gently brush his hair back out of his eyes and place a kiss to his forehead, "I love you."
With that, I leave Conor alone in his room, most probably scared and lonely. As I leave families say their goodbyes to loved ones and nurses give report at the end of their shift. The janitors dressed in dark blue scrubs sweep the tiled floor. It hasn't even been 24 hours since Conor left for the store this morning but it feels like my life is crumbling around me.
I call a taxi and it's a quiet ride home.
I trudge into our apartment. It feels empty without Conor around.
The next day is much of the same. I let my professors know that I'll be absent from classes for a few days and I contact Conor's professors and explain what happened. I call into my parttime job at 7-Eleven and tell them I won't be at work for a few days. I also notify Conor's boss at his parttime job at Barnes and Noble. Then I arrive at the hospital right as visiting hours open. I head straight for Conor's room and sit with him trying to comfort him and begging him to wake up.
However, Conor doesn't wake up.
A week passes.
My boss, who's normally patient and kind, calls and says, "If you don't show up for work tomorrow then I'll have no choice but to let you go."
I don't show up. Conor is more important than 7-Eleven.
Another week passes.
My chemistry professor emails me, "Devin, I know that you are having a rough time in your life but you have missed four labs and if they are not completed by Friday you will receive zeros on all four. I'm free all week after school, we can set a day to make them up. Email me back asap."
I open my email and start to type but guilt overcomes me. How could I possibly care about my chemistry grade when my fiancé is struggling to stay alive. Conor needs me here! The due date comes and goes and I still don't reply to that email.
Another week passes.
Conor is all better. His stitches have healed. His gashes are nearly unnoticeable. His legs are still broken but they're in casts and slowly healing. However, though his body is healing he is still in a coma. One day the doctor, a short middle-aged woman, walks in, "You must be Devin Trunswick, Conor's fiancé," I stand from my chair beside Conor's bed.
"Indeed I am," I reply back and the doctor shakes my hand.
"I'm Dr. Smith. It's awfully nice of you to be in here to visit Conor every day, some families just don't care the way you do," she seems nice enough but her presence is making me nervous.
Is something wrong with Conor? I've never seen her here before, its usually nurses or CNAs who come to take Conor's vitals.
"I love him, I don't know what I would do without him," I don't know how else to reply, if I could be with Conor twenty-four-seven I would.
"He's getting much better," the doctor smiles, "because of this though Conor won't be able to stay here much longer."
"Oh."
"We could transfer him to a nursing facility or if you're able to take care of him he could go back home," the doctor is still smiling but I'm freaking out.
I know nursing homes are nice but Conor's too young to go there. I can't send him there!
"I'll take care of him at home," I reply nervously.
I want Conor to go home again. He would be happier there but that just means I'll have to sacrifice my own life to take care of him. I curse myself for sounding so selfish. I would do anything for Conor but I need to go to school and I need to work in order to survive and to provide for Conor. I can't go to school or work and also take care of Conor!
"Great," the nurse replies, "We'll get everything ready to transfer him by tomorrow morning at 9."
With that, she leaves and I'm alone with the love of my life.
"Conor, I love you so much but please wake up," I plead for the millionth time but I already know it won't help.
By noon the next day Conor is home. He lays in our shared bed with the machines hooked up to him monitoring his heart rate and keeping him alive. A nurse explained how to take care of him. How to use the machine hooked to his stomach to feed him. How to roll him to prevent decubitus ulcers. How to insert a catheter. It's horrible seeing Conor so helpless.
Days pass and turn into weeks.
I take care of Conor. I want him to be comfortable but I notice I don't talk to him as much. I'm not even sure why. Maybe it's because he never talks back but mostly I think its because I feel like I'm only talking to myself. I doubt that Conor can even hear me when I talk to him. Maybe he can't feel either. Maybe I'm keeping him alive for nothing. Maybe Conor will never wake up. These negative thoughts keep tearing at my brain and I can't make them stop. I haven't been out of the house in weeks. I haven't had a good night's rest since the incident. Maybe its all catching up to me.
I'm doing what's right, right? Is this what Conor would want. Would he want me to keep him living? All I have to do is pull a plug. Is this what life is? Living off a machine.
I shake the terrible thoughts away for now but I know they're still there. Waiting to haunt me.
Months have passed since Conor's accident and it has been at least two months since Conor came home. If Conor was going to wake up, wouldn't he have done it by now? I glance at the power outlet. Filled with multicolored plugs. The black cord. That's the machine that keeps Conor's heart beating.