A year ago today, I got a phone call from Sarah’s doctor. Her blood pressure had dropped and they had sent her in an ambulance from the rehabilitation center to the hospital. He implied that I had better hurry if I wanted to see her before the end.
Up until that point, I had been under the impression that she was getting better. I rushed over to the Emergency Department. She was happy to see me, but having trouble breathing. I asked the doctors, “You know she’s an asthmatic, don’t you?” They looked at each other and scrambled to get her some albuterol, which really seemed to hit the spot.
They gave her the usual quiz to determine where her head was at:
“What’s your name?”
“Sarah.”
“What’s the date?”
“March first, 2003.”
She looked at me and smiled. In unison, we said, “Rabbit, rabbit.”
I didn’t mention that she was three years off.
The nurse was completely baffled, and I explained the superstition: on the first day of any given month, if the first thing you say when you wake up is “Rabbit, rabbit,” then you’ll have good luck.
“Who’s the President?”
Sarah looked disgusted and spat, “Bush.” The nurse laughed.
Eventually they decided to intubate her, and threw me out of the room, suggesting that I probably wouldn’t want to watch. She could tell that I was terrified. She grabbed my hand. “Hey,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
