New-Jake has finally turned the corner. He's doing so much better today. Asked me what was wrong with my eyes, rimmed with red and leaking all over the damned place. Said it wasn't so bad. Basically made me want to smack him, but instead I told him of my phone calls to his parents, and I told him about the kids hula-hooping with PJ in the driveway. We are currently making space in the house next door for him, Batman be damned. Jake can't seem to manage his own self all that well so some nifty routines should help him with that. Then we can nag him constantly and he'll be healthy and not die.
I look at Ben and wonder how he does it. He's very forthright and curious here, very keen to know what's going on and to be of use. He's lost both his parents and two of his good friends and then some but he's as comfortable sitting in a hard chair in the corner of a room watching someone be helpless as I am uncomfortable at it.
I'm a little wreck. The smell of the hospitals makes me nauseous, I worry and fret over every line, every beep, every person with a name tag who turns to talk with us and all I can picture is Cole, still and quiet at last, under a white sheet ripped down to his waist, the corners of the sheet pulled out at the bottom when they should have been tucked in, the unsteady beeps from the monitor beating my heart to smithereens as they slowed to a crawl and then stopped.
In contrast, Caleb's heartbeat is strong and steady. They've got his blood pressure and his pain under control. He has been ordered to get himself under control emotionally. This is not a choice, it's a requirement if he wants to live a full life, so he'll be healthy and not die.
I had to go outside in the courtyard/sidewalk/gift shop and pace and pull myself together more than once. As far as I can tell, we're doomed.