In the Waiting Room
"He said something to me. You know, before they put him under."
"I'm sure he's just worried."
"He said he hopes he doesn't wake up."
"He didn't mean it."
"I'm not so sure. You didn't see his face. It's been hard these last few months. He was a proud man. Strong. Now…this."
"I know, remember. I was there. Every day."
"And that means the world to him. He loves you. But he's getting tired of fighting."
"He didn't mean it."
"What if he's right?"
"He's my father."
"And he's my husband. That has nothing to do with it. What's there to live for anymore?"
"Us. His family. The people who love him."
"You don't think I love him?"
"Of course I don’t think that."
"Then what?"
"I don't know. It just doesn't seem…right."
"I know. I feel it, too."
"So why are we talking about this?"
"I guess some part of me wonders if he isn't right. It'd be so much easier for him. No more pain. No more machines sucking out his blood and returning it. No more sitting at home alone in that chair. Does that make me a monster?"
"Yes? No? I don't know. I wish you'd stop talking about it. It's not up to us now, what happens to him. The doctors have him now."
"You're right. Maybe the waiting's just getting to me."
"Yeah, maybe. I just don't want him to die."
"Neither do I."
"But…"
"Sometimes I wonder if he wouldn't be better off. If we all wouldn't be better off."
"So do I."
Amber Whitley's writings have appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies you probably haven't read and don’t care about. Find her on the web (or don't) at amberwhitleyauthor.blogspot.com
