He would have laughed… (beware – graphic, dark-humor truth.)

Warning: graphic, dark-humor truth. He would have laughed. You might, too. You might not, though. 

Peripherally, I spied Jeff’s ever-present mega-jug from Speedway on his night table. I tested the weight out, concluding there was water in it.

Actually, I didn’t conclude there was water – I really just concluded liquid. It likely could have been what I call soda or what he called pop. I assumed it was water, which is why I decided to pull the lid off the monster mug and dump the entire contents on Jeff’s head.

It was water.

There wasn’t as much of it as I’d thought.

It certainly wasn’t the deluge I was hoping for.

He didn’t wake up sputtering.

“Are you doing it?” the operator asked, referring to the mirror test she’d requested.

“Oh, my God!” I cried. “How did this happen? He’s not waking up! How could this have happened?”

Almost out-of-body, hearing myself and thinking; cliché. Soap opera style dramatics.

Frozen, fleetingly, I wondered: was drama reenactment of reality or was my reality a reflection drama?

Sensing my conclusion, I was assured, the ambulance was on the way. She said she’d remain on the line until it arrived.

Having endured Jeff’s preference for based-on-true-events TV, I’d either half-watched or got completely sucked into countless crime-solving and autopsy shows.

A horrifying scenario popped into my still grappling brain.

“They’re going to think I drowned him!”

“Oh, my God!” I blurted aloud, in response to my silent reasoning. I scooted around the bed.

“Do you hear the ambulance?” The voice surprised me out of my own head. I was shocked to find I was still holding my phone – firmly plastered to my ear.

“No. I don’t.” I replied. Swiping a washcloth from the counter, I scrambled back to Jeff.

I used the maroon square to swipe Jeff’s wet face and hair.

My inner dialog continued. “Oh, no! If he starts breathing, inhaling water could kill him!”

I pushed a small corner through the tiny opening between his teeth, trying to sop up any of the gushed liquid that might have run into his mouth.

“They should be there soon…” came consolingly over the line.

Well past the verge of hysteria, another terrifying possibility crossed my mind.

“Oh, my GOD!” I wailed, wildly recalling the frequency with which the tiniest of fibers had helped solve mysteries and finger murderers.

Fortunately, only heard within the confines of my scrambling head, my error screamed, “They’re going to think I smothered him!”

Quote for the Week: 2019 10 15 The brain works with remarkable speed to process jakorte

“911, what is your emergency?” (graphic)

Some of this is just the gist of my recollection, not necessarily verbally accurate to every word spoken to me.

Some of this is 100% precise thoughts and words and deeds – mostly mine.

Overall, though, generalization and sequence should be enough to put you there, with me.

When the operator answered, I was momentarily stunned; marveling at the accuracy of every stereotypical dramatic portrayal of a 911 operator.

“911 – what is your emergency?”

I wasn’t expecting that.

“911 – what is your emergency?”

I wasn’t particularly panicked, but I was absolutely emphatic. “I can’t wake my husband up. I’ve shaken him and yelled in his ear, but I can’t wake him up.”

“Is he breathing?”

I put my ear to his chest.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m trying to listen….”

“Do you know CPR?”

“Yes, I think so… but you’ll have to remind me….”

She urged me toward mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, instead.

“OK, tilt his head back.”

“I can’t,” I said. “His head won’t move.”

“Put your hand under his head, and push up on the back of his neck.”

“That’s not working, either,” I said.

“Is his mouth open?”

“Not really,” I reported. “Well, I mean, a little… like normal sleep…not closed, but you know, not open.”

It was explained to me that I was going to have to open his mouth in order to breathe my breath into him. I wasn’t sure how to do that, so I awkwardly tried to ease his lips apart.

“I can’t,” I said. “It won’t open.”

“Try putting your hand in his mouth and pulling down” she suggested.

I inserted two fingertips and squeamishly applied pressure to his bottom teeth.

“It won’t move,” I reported. Exasperated with frustration, I raised my voice to make the situation clearer. “Nothing is working!”

“Is he breathing?” she asked, again.

“I don’t know!” I repeated. “I can’t tell.”

“Do you have a mirror? Can you go find a mirror?”

“Yes,” I said, but I didn’t move.

I stood there, frozen, scanning with my eyes. Head to toes and toes to head and head to toes. Panicked bubbled up as I almost came to grips with reality.

“Are you still there? Did you get the mirror?”

“Yes,” I said, even though I hadn’t left his side.

Instructed to hold the mirror to his lips and watch for condensation fog, I must have registered some part of the truth, at that point.

While I instinctively knew what the mirroring result would be, I also concluded we were wasting time.

I needed to try something else. Something powerful.

Something with enough impact to prove what I didn’t really want proven.

Quote for the Week: 2019 10 08 insisting on static concrete paths leaves no consideration jakorte