That Quiet Voice by Cynthia René Doss

Author:Cynthia René Doss [René Doss Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: -
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2018-05-08T16:00:00+00:00

DAY 6

July 18, 1997

Day – Denise/Jeremy, Night – Tammy

Weight: 82.9

The next morning, I drove Renatè’s Renault to the hospital. The radio was on, but I hadn’t really been listening until a song came on that caught my attention. In the refrain, the artist Trisha Yearwood sang,

How do I live without you?

Yearwood repeated the refrain several times and I noticed my hands started to shake on the steering wheel, so I pulled over to the side of the road. My whole body shuddered. I couldn’t hold back any longer. All of the effort to remain brave for Renatè and my family was gone. The quiet voice inside me that had been telling me everything was going to be okay was now silent as my fear of losing her took over. A wretched pain gripped me. I could feel it in every joint of my body. For the first time, I admitted to myself that there was a possibility that she could die. I realized that just like the Tricia Yearwood song lyrics, I wouldn’t know how to live without her. I sobbed uncontrollably.

When I finished crying, I wiped my eyes and tried to brush the lint of the now shredded tissue from my face. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and into my bloodshot eyes, knowing that there would be no hiding my feelings that day. I continued on to the hospital.

I entered Renatè’s room and set my tote bag on the chair as always, but when I turned toward the bed I had to take a step backwards. Renatè’s eyes were open. There was no fanfare. The heavens didn’t open up, and there was no angelic choir singing “Hallelujah!” Nonetheless, it was a miracle. When her gaze met mine, she frowned.

“Welcome back, stranger,” I told Renatè. “You had a really bad Sickle Cell crisis, and you’re in the hospital.” I didn’t want to tell her more than that. To tell her about her liver, lung, and kidney failure at that point would only scare her. “You are in good hands. A team of specialists is taking care of you.”

She tried to talk, but the ventilator prevented her from speaking. She reached up and pulled at the tube, trying to remove it. I grabbed her hand.

“No, Renatè, the ventilator is helping you breathe. Until your lungs are strong enough, you’ll need it.”

She frowned and moved her lips around the tube.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. Are you in pain?”

She quickly shook her head no and tried moving her lips again. Still unable to understand, I could only shrug my shoulders. She raised her right hand and moved her wrist as if she were writing in the air.

“You want to write?”

She nodded. I rummaged through my tote bag and gave her a notepad and pen. With pen in hand, she began marking the page, and when she was through, she presented it to me with pride. All that was on the paper was a series of scribbles—no letters, no words.

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