3:47 P.M.

           Theyjustmovedmeoutoftherecoveryroomintothetraumaintensive-careunit,orICU.It’sahorseshoe-shapedroomwithaboutadozenbedsandacadreofnurses,whoconstantlybustlearound,readingthecomputerprintoutsthatchurnoutfromthefeetofourbedsrecordingourvitalsigns.Inthemiddleoftheroomaremorecomputersandabigdesk,whereanothernursesits.

           Ihavetwonurseswhocheckinonme,alongwiththeendlessroundofdoctors.Oneisataciturndoughymanwithblondhairandamustache,whoIdon’tmuchlike.Andtheotherisawomanwithskinsoblackit’sblueandaliltinhervoice.Shecallsme"sweetheart"andperpetuallystraightenstheblanketsaroundme,eventhoughit’snotlikeI’mkickingthemoff.

           TherearesomanytubesattachedtomethatIcannotcountthemall:onedownmythroatbreathingforme;onedownmynose,keepingmystomachempty;oneinmyvein,hydratingme;oneinmybladder,peeingforme;severalonmychest,recordingmyheartbeat;anotheronmyfinger,recordingmypulse.Theventilatorthat’sdoingmybreathinghasasoothingrhythmlikeametronome,in,out,in,out.

           Noone,asidefromthedoctorsandnursesandasocialworker,hasbeenintoseeme.It’sthesocialworkerwhospeakstoGranandGrampsinhushedsympathetictones.ShetellsthemthatIamin"grave"condition.I’mnotentirelysurewhatthatmeans—grave.OnTV,patientsarealwayscritical,orstable.Gravesoundsbad.Graveiswhereyougowhenthingsdon’tworkouthere.