By me.
It was late afternoon when Doctor Sterling filed in with two nurses to remove the tube from Hawk’s throat. I felt nauseous as I moved to the end of the bed, the only place I could touch Hawk, the only way I could let him know I was there without being in the way.
Doctor Sterling didn’t even try to make me leave the room. I think she knew I wasn’t about to leave Hawk alone at such a critical time.
It wasn’t just the cart full of equipment the nurses had wheeled in that scared me. Doctor Sterling had explained it all to me in advance: that they wouldn’t know for sure if Hawk could breathe on his own until they removed the tube, that 12-14 percent of extubations were failures, requiring the patient to be immediately re-intubated to keep them from suffocating.
There were other possible complications too — damage to Hawk’s vocal cords or larynx, aspiration that could cause him to drown in his own fluids, a buildup of carbon dioxide in his blood as his body learned how to breathe again — but those came later.
The first hurdle was removing the tube, seeing if Hawk could breathe on his own.
I touched Hawk’s feet while Doctor Sterling explained the extubation procedure to him. It wasn’t a passive process: they would deflate the cuff that secured the breathing tube in Hawk’s windpipe, but Hawk would have to cough or exhale forcefully to help them get the tube out smoothly.
And then he’d have to remember how to breathe.
My heart beat like a drum against my chest, my blood rushing in my ears as Doctor Sterling calmly counted down on one side of Hawk. The two nurses stood on his other side, giving him instructions and encouragement, and I suddenly second-guessed my decision not to contact his family.
Vigo hadn’t told me much, but he did tell me that Hawk wasn’t close to his family, that he wouldn’t want them to becontacted unless he actually died, a possibility I didn’t dare even think about.
I loved Hawk, would do anything for him, but I couldn’t pretend to know him.
Not really.
Vigo, on the other hand, had known him for years, and in the end I’d trusted that Vigo knew Hawk’s wishes. It made me sad, made me feel like Hawk had been more alone than he’d let on, but I was in crisis mode, making the best decisions I could with the information I had.
Doctor Sterling finished her countdown and there was a flurry of activity around the bed as she deflated the cuff. One nurse pulled on the tube while the other coaxed Hawk to cough.
I held my own breath, waiting for his to start while the nurses encouraged him to breathe.
He coughed for a long time, gasping so much that I thought maybe it wasn’t working, that he would be an extubation fail, that he would have to be re-intubated.
Then he was breathing.
“Good!” Doctor Sterling coaxed. “Very good.”
I couldn’t see much: the nurses were busy, moving around him like a pair of dancers in a perfect duet.
After a few minutes they held a straw to Hawk’s lips and Doctor Sterling watched him sip, pulling the straw away quickly so he couldn’t take in too much liquid before they were sure his swallow reflex was working.
Hawk fought against one of the nurses, his gaze glued to mine, when she tried to fit an oxygen mask over his face.
“You’ll need the extra oxygen for a while,” Doctor Sterling explained. “You’ll get better faster if you take it.”
He relaxed, then took some labored breaths once the mask was in place.
“So far, so good,” Doctor Sterling said to him. “We’ll monitor you closely for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, make sure everything’s working. Your throat will be sore for a while. You can have more water in a bit.”
“Anything I need to know?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “You’ve been here for days. I think you know it all at this point. He’s lucky to have you.”
I’m the lucky one.
I didn’t say it, but I felt it in my bones.
“I’ll check in on you in the morning,” she said.
The nurses wheeled the cart out after her and I moved to the side of the bed to touch Hawk’s face.