By Anne McGrath
I woke in 3 a.m. darkness to what sounded like a barking seal. It was my husband—teeth chattering, too weak to stand, and too confused to speak. I called 911 and paramedics arrived to find him gasping for air at 107 degrees. I didn’t know a person could be that many degrees. We wouldn’t find out about the septic shock or burst appendix until later, in the ER.
Did the seven EMS workers see a multi-faceted person—father, musician, animal-lover— or simply failing vitals? Someone in big boots sprang into action delivering rib-cracking compressions.
My eyes didn’t know where to land. Not on my convulsing husband. Not on my shaking son. Not on the poodle begging for reassurance. I settled on the bedroom’s crystal doorknob. So many angles catching light. The cool, greasy feel. The faint patina of rust on the skeleton key perfectly parked in the keyhole. A debt is owed to doorknobs. So necessary to the working of doors, so underappreciated until one breaks.
Love—never and always the simple things. Like breath. Like doors.
Photo by Kulbir via Pexels
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