Free Two Kisses for Maddy: A Memoir of Loss & Love by Matthew Logelin Page B

everyone who ran past me—I needed to know what was going on with my wife—but the only person speaking to me was that damn woman I didn’t recognize, and she was speaking in euphemisms I couldn’t comprehend. I just wanted some straight answers. My questions were simple enough: How long until I can see her again? When can I tell her about the commotion she caused? When can she hold her baby?
    She was still talking. “Mr. Logelin. Please sit down.”
    I swear I’m gonna punch her in the face if she says that to me again. Rather than giving her the fist I thought she deserved, I sat down against the wall just so she would leave me the hell alone. The woman walked away victorious, and I sat there with my knees pulled up to my chest, my arms holding them in place, my head shaking away the awful thoughts rationality was trying to get me to come to terms with.
    A doctor in a white coat walked out of Liz’s room and in my direction. She had dark hair, looked friendly, and was pretty like the doctors on television. I stood up, still leaning against the wall. I asked, “Who is that short lady who keeps telling me to sit down?”
    “She’s a grief counselor.”
    A grief counselor. Why the fuck do I need to talk to a grief counselor? “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
    Though we’d never met, she didn’t have to ask who I was. She said, “It doesn’t look good.”
    Well, that was the most direct language anyone had used yet. Normal. Normal. Normal. turned into Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Then I asked, “What does that mean?”
    “We think she may have had a pulmonary embolism,” the doctor said. “A blood clot.” She placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “We’re doing everything we can.”
    She rushed off down the hall, leaving me alone. I started pacing. I found an empty corner in the hallway next to a stretcher and started talking out loud to myself—to Liz. “You can do this. You’re tough. You’re gonna make it.” As the words came from my mouth, I remembered all the times I used to tell her that she wasn’t tough. I was feeling like an asshole, and then all of a sudden it hit me: She was going to die, today, here in this hospital. And she was never going to hold her baby.
    I had to see Liz. I had to hold her. The feeling overwhelmed me, and I was drawn back toward her room, getting as far as the nurses’ station. Standing there was Olivia, Liz’s favorite nurse. A tall, African-American woman, she had been a constant source of support to Liz during her time in the hospital. She reached out and gave me a hug, not saying a word. It seemed that she had come to the same conclusion I had.
    As we stood there hugging, someone interrupted. “Excuse me.” It was the grief counselor, and with her was a man in a black robe and a white clerical collar. A priest. In the movies, the priest shows up when someone is about to die.
    I looked at the counselor and asked, “What the fuck is he doing here?”
    She gave me a stunned look, but before she could answer, the priest said, “I understand that Liz is Catholic. Do you mind if we say a prayer?”
    Now, I had been with Liz for over twelve years. Yes, she was born a Catholic, and I know that she believed in God, but she definitely wasn’t religious. She simply chose to write “Catholic” on the admission documents she was given when we arrived at the hospital, as if it had been a question about her blood type. Looking furiously at the short woman and pointing at the priest, I said, “Get him the fuck out of here. I know what this means. I don’t want to pray. I don’t want to talk to you. I want to see my wife.”
    Looking more stunned than the counselor, the priest placed his hand on her shoulder and they both walked away. I instantly felt awful about the way I had treated them, but I just wasn’t ready to hear confirmation of what I knew was inevitable. Not from them.
    As they walked away, I turned the corner toward Liz’s room and saw Dr. Nelson running