The camera that was a part of me again.
Hours must have passed as I ducked in and out of the room, capturing the day outside. Later that evening, Poppy’s family began filing into the room, Poppy’s doctors following closely behind. I jumped from my seat and rubbed the tiredness from my eyes. They had arrived to begin bringing her out from the coma.
“Rune,” Mr. Litchfield greeted. He walked over to where I was standing and embraced me. A happy truce had settled between us since Poppy had been in her coma. He understood me, and I understood him. Because of that, even Savannah had begun to trust me with not breaking her sister’s heart.
And because I hadn’t left, not once, since Poppy had been admitted. If Poppy was here, so was I. My dedication must have showed that I loved her more than any of them had ever believed.
Ida came over to where I stood and wrapped her arms around my waist. Mrs. Litchfield kissed me on my cheek.
Then we all waited for the doctor to finish his exam.
When he turned to us, he said, “Poppy’s white blood cell count is as good as we can hope for in this stage of her illness. We’ll gradually reduce the anesthetic and bring her around. As she gets stronger, we’ll be able to unhook her from some of these machines.” My heart beat fast, my hands clenching at my sides.
“Now,” the doctor continued. “Poppy, at first, will slip in and out of consciousness. When she is conscious, she may be delirious, out of sorts. That will be from the medication still in her system. But eventually, she should begin to rouse for longer periods of time and, all being well, in a couple of days, show us her usual happy self.” The doctor held up his hands. “But Poppy will be weak. Until we assess her in her conscious state, we won’t be able to determine just how much this infection has weakened her. Only time will tell. But she may have limited movement that restricts the things she can do. It is unlikely that she will regain full strength.”
I closed my eyes, praying to God that she would be okay. And if she wasn’t, I promised that I would help her through—anything to give me just a little more time. No matter what it took, I’d do anything.
The next couple of days dragged by. Poppy’s hands began to move slightly, her eyelashes fluttered, and on day two, her eyes began to open. It was only for a few seconds at a time, but it was enough to fill me with a mixture of excitement and hope.
On day three, a team of doctors and nurses came into the room, and began the process of unhooking Poppy from the machines. I watched, heart pounding, as the breathing tube was removed from her throat. I watched as machine after machine was carted away, until I saw my girl again.
My heart swelled.
Her skin was pale, her usually soft lips were chapped. But seeing her free from all of those machines, I was sure she’d never looked so perfect to me.
I sat patiently in the chair by her bed, holding her hand in mine. My head was tipped back, as I stared in a trance at the ceiling, when I felt Poppy’s hand weakly squeezing mine. My breathing paused. My lungs froze. My eyes darted to Poppy on the bed. Her fingers on her free hand moved, softly twitching.
Reaching over to the wall, I slammed the call button for the nurses. When one entered, I said, “I think she’s waking up.” Poppy had made slight movements over the past twenty-four hours, but never this many and for this long.
“I’ll get the doctor,” she replied and left the room. Poppy’s parents came rushing in shortly after, having just arrived for their daily visit.
The doctor entered seconds later. As he approached the bed, I stepped back to stand beside Poppy’s parents, letting the assisting nurse check her vitals.
Poppy’s eyes began to flutter under her lids, then they slowly rolled open. I inhaled as her green eyes sleepily took in her surroundings.
“Poppy? Poppy, you’re okay,” the doctor said soothingly. I saw Poppy try turn her head in his direction, but her eyes couldn’t focus. I felt a tug somewhere inside me when her hand reached out. She was searching for me. Even in a confused state, she was searching for my hand.
“Poppy, you’ve been asleep for a while. You’re okay, but you’re going to feel tired. Just know that you’re okay.”
Poppy made a sound like she was trying to speak. The doctor turned to the nurse. “Get her some ice for her lips.”
I couldn’t stay back any longer, and I rushed forward, ignoring Mr. Litchfield’s call for me to stop. Moving to the other side of the bed, I leaned down and wrapped my hand around Poppy’s. The minute I did, her body calmed and her head softly rolled in my direction. Her eyes fluttered open. Then she looked right at me.
“Hei, Poppymin,” I whispered, fighting the tightness in my throat.
And then she smiled. It was small, barely a trace, but it was there. Her weak fingers squeezed mine with all the strength of a fly, then she slipped back to sleep.
I blew out a long breath. But Poppy’s hand never released mine. So I stayed where I was. Sitting on the chair beside her, I stayed exactly where I was.
Another day passed with an increasing number of moments of consciousness from Poppy. She wasn’t really lucid when she was awake, but she smiled at me when she focused her attention my way. I knew a part of her, although confused, was aware I was here with her. Her weak smiles made sure there was nowhere else I’d ever be.
Later that day, when a nurse came into the room to do her hourly checks, I asked, “Can I move her bed?”
The nurse stopped what she was doing and raised her brow. “To where, darlin’?”
I walked to the wide window. “Here,” I said. “So when she wakes properly she can see outside.” I huffed a quiet laugh. “She loves to watch the sunrise.” I glanced back. “Now she’s not hooked up to anything but her IV, I thought it might be okay?”
The nurse stared at me. I could see the sympathy in her eyes. I didn’t want her sympathy. I just wanted her to help me. I wanted her to help me give this to Poppy.
“Sure,” she said eventually. “I can’t see that being a problem.” My body relaxed. I moved to the side of Poppy’s bed, the nurse at the other, and we rolled it to sit in front of the view of the pediatric oncology garden outside. A garden which sat under a clear blue sky.
“This okay?” the nurse asked and pushed the brakes down.
“Perfect,” I replied and smiled.
When Poppy’s family came in a short time later, her mama hugged me. “She’ll love it,” she said. As we sat around the bed, Poppy stirred from time to time, shifting where she lay, but for no longer than a few seconds.
Over the past couple of days, her parents had taken turns staying overnight in the family room across the hallway. One stayed at home with the girls. More often than not it was her mama who stayed here.
I stayed in Poppy’s room.
I lay beside her in her small bed every night. Slept with her in my arms, waiting for the moment she woke up.
I knew her parents weren’t exactly thrilled with it, but I figured they allowed it because, why not? They wouldn’t disallow it. Not now. Not in this circumstance.
And I sure as hell wasn’t leaving.
Poppy’s mama was talking to her sleeping daughter about her sisters. She was telling her about how they were doing at school—mundane things. I sat, half-listening, when there was a soft knock at the door.
When I glanced up, I saw my pappa open the door. He gave Mrs. Litchfield a small wave, then looked at me. “Rune? Can I see you for a second?”