Page 130 of Lighting the Lamp
My fingers fist tight in the vinyl, clutching like I could tear through it if I needed to. I press my forehead against the seam, my breath fogging the sterile air. Every clipped order, every shuffle of feet, every alarm from the monitor seeps through, but it’s not enough. I can’t see his face. I can’t hold his hand. I can’t do anything but listen and hope that when the voices say his name, it’s not the last time.
The curtain pulls between us before I can form another word, rattling on its hooks. I stumble back a step, my palms slick, my whole body buzzing with the urge to tear it open again. Instead, I’m left staring at the sterile fabric that’s suddenly become a wallbetween us. From the other side come clipped voices and the frantic symphony of machines.
“Get a 12-lead,” someone orders, voice firing like bullets.“Start fluids and page cardiology.”
The words hit like a gunshot, vibrating through my chest. I can’t see him, can’t touch him, and all I have are the clipped commands and the steady rise of panic in the voices on the other side. My palms press flat to the curtain anyway, useless against the barrier.
Michele barrels into the hallway like a storm, hair windblown, eyes wide, and voice sharp with fear. “I rode in with Cole. How is he?”
“They’re working on him,” I rasp, and it’s a miracle the words make it past my throat.
Cole is right behind her, moving fast, his face carved into something grim. His gaze fixes on the curtain and doesn’t budge, like if he looks away for even a second, he’ll lose him.
The fabric is thin, useless at keeping the chaos inside from spilling out. Every clipped order hits like shrapnel.
“BP is dropping. Open the fluids wider.”
“IV secure—starting second line.”
The snap of gloves. The shuffle of feet. The beeping of the monitor, sharp and erratic, cut straight through my chest. My knees wobble, but I lock them tight, pressing a hand to the cool wall for balance.
Michele’s fingers clutch at my arm, her nails biting through the fabric of my sleeve. “God, Beau…” Her voice cracks, the sound shattering something inside me.
Cole doesn’t move. He’s stone, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek, but his hands tremble where they hang at his sides. Every breath he drags in sounds like it’s scraping through his lungs.
I press my forehead against the wall beside the curtain opening, desperate to tear it open, to get to him, but all I can do is listen. The curtain rattles faintly with every hurried step inside, the sound of sneakers squeaking across tile. A machine dings to life, then another, layering into a jagged rhythm that feels all wrong. I picture him surrounded, hands on him, wires sticking, his chest bare under the harsh lights, while I’m stuck out here with nothing but the noise.
“He was fine,” I whisper, the words breaking in half. “He was fine all day…”
Inside, the tempo quickens. A cart rattles into place, wheels squealing, metal clattering. Someone calls for oxygen. Another voice barks about leads and connections. It’s all movement and urgency, but no reassurance. No one says he’s okay.
Auntie Mel’s voice slices through the hallway, raw and shaking. “Tell them he has lupus! Make sure they know!”
For a beat, everything in me stutters. The word rings in my ears, heavy and sharp, louder than the monitor alarms. Lupus. She says it like it has been living in her mouth for years, like it is already part of his story, when to me, it is a grenade dropped at my feet.
The curtain flutters, and a nurse slips her head out, eyes sweeping over us. “Did I hear correctly? Lupus?”
“Yes,” Auntie Mel snaps, her voice still trembling. “Please make sure the doctor knows.”
The nurse gives a quick nod and disappears back inside. The curtain sways for a moment before settling, and when it does, the silence it leaves behind is worse than any noise. My stomach knots so hard I almost double over. He never told me. He’s carried this alone, and he still kissed me like I was the only person who could steady him. Shame coils in my chest, twined tight with fear, until I can barely breathe around it.
Inside, the room crackles with urgency. Metal trays clink together, a cart squeals as it’s pushed into place, voices overlap in clipped bursts. The monitor shrieks in erratic pitches, jagged and cruel, each sound tearing across my skin like a blade.
“He’s in atrial fibrillation with rapid ventricular response,” the attending doctor says, voice flat with urgency. “Push diltiazem, twenty milligrams IV bolus, then start a drip.”
The words mean nothing and everything at once. They are precise, practiced, the kind of language that belongs in textbooks and charts, but to me, they sound like a sentence being handed down. Atrial fibrillation. Rapid response. Bolus. Drip. The syllables scrape against my ribs, cold and sharp, while my brain trips over them, translating only one thing: his heart is breaking its own rhythm, and they’re racing to cage it before it slips too far.
My shoulder digs into the wall, paint cool against my skin, and I curl my fingers into the edge of it so tightly my nails ache. The hiss of machines filters through the curtains, sharp with the sting of antiseptic, and I picture the way his chest must rise unevenly under all those wires. I can’t stop thinking that while they fight to keep his heart steady, mine is splintering on the other side of this curtain.
“You stay with me,” I whisper, the words sharp enough to cut my tongue. The curtain swallows the sound, but I say it anyway, as if he can hear me through fabric and chaos.
On the other side, the noise shifts. The alarms that had been shrieking settle into a steadier cadence, the beeping rhythmic and almost bearable. The clipped urgency of voices softens into something controlled.
“Heart rate’s coming down.”
“Blood pressure holding.”
“Respirations steady. Oxygen ninety-six.”
