Dear Editor,
I remember the very first time I met Joan. My brother and I were standing near our uncle’s house in Grand Case, when he pointed at a young girl who was walking in our direction and said: “Hey, that’s our cousin Joan.” The young girl, apparently too shy to talk to us ran right past us into our uncle’s house and disappeared.
The next time I saw her was several decades later. She had moved to the USA and returned to St. Maarten as an adult. One afternoon, as I was walking to my car, I saw this lady on the other side of the street. Our eyes met and she smiled at me. I immediately knew she was my long-lost cousin. I crossed the street, hugged and kissed her and told her how happy I was to see her again. Every time we met after that, there was always a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes.
Then, one fateful Monday morning, shortly after I arrived at my job, I heard a co-worker telling another: “He did it. He shot her in the neck.” No names were called, yet I somehow knew they were talking about my cousin. The next morning they shipped her out to University Hospital in Puerto Rico.
Two days later I flew to San Juan. When I got to her room she looked like she was resting peacefully. Good, I thought, she’s asleep. However, I got scared when I looked into her eyes, it was as if I were looking into the eyes of a dead person. For about 10 minutes I just stood there looking at her. At first I was afraid to touch her. She was lying there, so peacefully, like someone in a profound sleep.
It was so very quiet in the ICU. The only thing that interrupted the deadly silence was the sound coming from a small device on a table not far from her bed. As I watched her chest rise and fall with each perfectly-timed stroke of the device, I realized with horror that she was not breathing on her own; this piece of equipment was pumping life-sustaining oxygen into her lungs. The only thing between my cousin and eternity was this rather small, electrical man-made apparatus.
A doctor, who had heard me whispering her name, came over. “She can’t hear you!” To prove his point, he put his lips very close to her ears and yelled her name (totally mispronouncing it). Not the slightest reaction. “See? She is brain-dead” and walked away.
By this time I had mustered up enough courage to carefully remove her arm from under the impeccably white sheet. Her skin was warm to the touch; I began caressing her hand and playing with her fingers. A stupid thought entered my mind, “What will death do to these long, beautiful fingers?”
I don’t know how long I stood there holding her hand and silently pleading with God to bring her back. “Just for a short time, Lord. Give me a few minutes with her. I want to tell her about You, about how much You love her. I want to tell her to ask forgiveness for her sins.”
On and on I went, but, even as I was fervently praying to God, my subconscious mind began mocking me. “If I were God, I would tell you: Clive, you had plenty of time to talk with her about the Lord, but you didn’t. She can’t hear you now. It’s too late. You blew it! I completely ignored those negative thoughts, and continued pleading with the Lord.
At this time Joan’s sister and brother arrived at the hospital. I wondered why they had taken so long to get there, but then I remembered that I had barged my way in long before visiting hours.
A coma is such a merciful thing, I thought, but yet at the same time a horrible thing. It rendered my cousin complete insensitivity to what would otherwise be intense, unbearable physical pain. But it also made her totally unaware of the many tender kisses on her forehead, the passionate calling of her name and the tears that fell from a sister’s face onto her own. I stood there taking it all in.
I thought of the time I had borrowed a book from her. Its title was, Life after Life. She must have loved that book, because she was reluctant to lend it to me. “Make sure you bring it back, Clive.”
I was now glad she had read it, for she was about to enter that realm.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a soft voice with a Spanish accent: “Sir, you have to leave now; visiting time is over.” I quickly glanced at my watch. Visiting time had ended about three hours ago. The head nurse had been very lenient. We reluctantly left the hospital, hoping that the time would pass quickly, so we could be with Joan again.
Early the next morning I hurried back to the hospital. This time, however, the nurse on duty was unwilling to allow me access to the ICU. I sensed she was holding something back; there was something she was afraid to tell me. As she reached for the phone on her desk to call her supervisor, I asked her, “Has the patient passed away?” She looked at me and solemnly nodded.
Some 34 years have gone by and I still vividly remember every detail. What had made a big impact on me were the horrific words that have stayed with me to this day, “You had ample time … but you blew it.”
Clive Hodge
