My eyes shut and beyond my power, am I sedated? I was without a clue where I was or why I was here. My hearing was picking up voices, distant at first but now clearer. “Ben is showing signs of awakening, let me call Dr. Berg and his family.” I couldn’t respond other than a finger wave at someone who sounded like a hospital nurse. “Dr. Berg to room 604, Dr Berg to 604.”
“Family, what family?” I thought. No one has visited me since the divorce. Just lawyers, always those damn lawyers. The day Margaret handed me the separation letter, my 55th birthday no less. On lawyer’s stationary to be official, signed Patrick Thompson LL.M.. I had no tears in me, no apologies, just resentment. I was glad it ended but horrified at how Margaret ended 28 years of marriage. “It’s the way now,” James, my lawyer, explained to me. “We’ll negotiate a settlement, quick and easy.” Six months of weekly meetings, still without settlement and Margaret in tears every one of them.
Dozing off again, mind wandering. We were having our first child, Abby. “Ben, I’m feeling movement, contractions, take me to the hospital!” In the car we went but fully stopped within ten minutes. “I’m doing my best, Honey” I repeated. Rush hour in Toronto, cars backed up the entire highway. “I’ll wave down that police car.” Margaret gets more upset, “You’re always late!” She was right. I waved down a cop who radioed an ambulance which came just in time. Margaret didn’t talk to me again until two days after the birth. It was just the first fight about Abby, our most rebellious daughter. There were the parent-teacher meetings, the homework never getting done, dropping out at age sixteen, the boys with hoods and tattoos, and then the drugs. The drugs that turned our house into a war zone. Abby stopped talking to us, left home and left us speechless.
Voices in the background again, I’m hearing Margaret and someone else. “Dad, it’s Abby, I’m here in the hospital. Can you hear me?”. My body still barely able to move, I motioned my index finger and felt tears on my cheek.