"We have no Rick Smith."

"What do you mean? I was told they brought him here."

"I'm sorry." The triage nurse's annoyance was unmistakable. I had no recourse but to wait.

I'd received a call about fifteen minutes ago. My husband was found by the maintenance man outside, face down on the ground. The man said he didn't know what happened. Rick was somewhat lucid and said he didn't fall; he was tired. An ambulance transported him to the hospital. Now, I can't find him.

I circled the waiting room looking at faces. None familiar except for their fears, their postures; heads down, wringing hands, pacing.

I went back to the nurse. “Please, can you check again?”

"I told you. We have no Rick Smith here."

I wanted to slap him. My frustration and fear escalated.

I called Rick's assisted living facility, my hands shaking. I was informed the ambulance had picked him up forty-five minutes ago. My heart was beating double time, and I struggled to keep a grip. I went outside to see if I could hear an ambulance siren. Where was he?

As I walked around the entry, I saw two Emergency Medical Techs standing by their vehicle.

"Did you just bring a man here from Wingate?”

"Are you his wife?"

"Yes!"

"We didn't have any identification. They admitted him as John Doe."

"Jesus."

I ran back inside and told the nurse the John Doe they admitted was Rick Smith – and my husband. Why hadn’t he checked?

By the time I was allowed in, the doctor had already intubated him. As I was running down the aisle, I could see Rick inside the curtained area – with the tube they put down his throat that was forcing him to breathe. I yelled, "Get that tube out! Let him go! Take it out! Please! Let him go!"

I could not stop the tears, the fear, and my anger at being kept from my husband, my lover, my friend of more than fifty years. He was not a John Doe, he was my other half. My heart was splitting in two. I know I was hysterical but I couldn’t help it.

The doctor appeared and softly told me he could not take the tube out and led me to the Family Room. No paperwork had arrived with Rick. No identification. No Advance Healthcare Directive form with its "Do Not Resuscitate" and "Do Not Intubate" wishes explicitly written by the patient. It was too late.

The doctor advised me if the tube was taken out now it would be murder because my husband was given a paralytic medication. He could no longer breathe on his own. The tube and machine were breathing for him—and keeping him alive. I learned the tube could be removed only after the doctor saw independent body movement. Rick had to move something, a hand, a foot, a finger, for the staff to know the paralytic medication had worn off.

"Can he come back? Is there a chance he will survive?" I was so afraid and alone.

"It's not likely. He was without oxygen, and I don't know for how long. You can sit near him. Talk to him, he can still hear."

I stepped behind the curtain and pulled a chair close to the bed. "I'm not ready, Babe. I'm not ready to lose you. Please come back,” I whispered. I watched tears slide down the side of his face. His face was smooth telling me he'd shaved that day. God, he was so handsome. I had no way to know if he was still in there, and could hear me, or feel me touching him. Was he crying for me? For us? I was crying.

I texted a good friend, a nurse, to see if she was working. I told her where I was. Ten minutes later she was rushing through the Emergency Department with tears streaming down her face. I fell into her outstretched arms, my pain exploding with her empathy and support. This was real. This was happening.

"They can't take the tube out," I sobbed.

"I know," she said.

She was a crisis nurse and knew everyone in the department. The staff loved her as much as I did. She held me tight for a few minutes and then had me sit by Rick while she went to speak with the doctor.

The chaos of the ER was in full bloom with the bleeping machines, and hospital staff rushing around. The antiseptic smell of the procedure rooms, Lysol, antibacterial lotion dispensers every few feet, reminded me of where we were. I could smell fear, my own. A drunk woman yelled at a nurse in a voice heard throughout the area, calling her a whore. The more the nurse tried to subdue her, the louder she got. It was funny in a sick kind of way. The nurse was totally in control and the outbursts didn’t phase her one bit.

The doctor came back with my friend, and they explained the tube would be taken out as soon as possible. They would keep him comfortable. I could stay with him. The doctor suggested I play some music if I could. He assured me Rick would hear it. I took my phone out again and hit Spotify. My eyes were clouded with tears, my mind running in circles. I wasn't sure what to play so I just typed Moody Blues. The lyrics started.

We've already said goodbye...

I knew immediately this was Rick reaching out, his way of telling me he was letting go.

Not yet! Not yet, Babe! I'm not ready!

But he was talking to me, through this song, these lyrics. I don't wanna see you go. Oh, you'd better go now.

Rick’s hand was strong. Long slender fingers, fingernails neatly trimmed with just a little bit of white. An intrusive tube was taped to the top of his hand. I tried to hold it, but I was unable to intertwine my fingers with his, like we always did walking together. Back then, every once in a while, he'd run a finger across my palm—a sign he was thinking of a deeper intimacy. The memory of it made me smile for a second. He would never hold me again. His hands would never touch me again. How could I bear it? Since you've got to go/ Oh, you'd better go now....go now/ before you see me cry. I don't want you to tell me just what you intend to do... Cause how many times do I have to tell you, darling, darling, I'm still in love with you.

I stayed next to him until I saw his foot move. Then I called for the nurse and told her he was moving. The tube should come out. The doctor came in, and I left the room for a few minutes not wanting to witness the removal.

Once the tube was taken out of his throat, and the medical interventions removed, they transferred him to a regular bed, not a gurney, and moved him to a quiet room at the end of the hallway. I followed along.

He looked pale, but peaceful and calm, like he was just taking a nap. There was a gurgling sound from his throat with every breath. It wasn’t very loud, not like his snoring. His chest rose and fell with the shallow breaths. I picked up his hand and held it in mine. It was thin, the veins visible through the skin. A thick wad of gauze taped over the hole where the IV had been. No more fluids or meds would be given unless he appeared to be uncomfortable or in pain.

The tips of his fingers started to turn blueish purple. That meant his oxygen levels were dropping—he wouldn't be alive much longer. His respirations started to slow and the gurgling increased. A nurse told me she had put a patch on his neck to lessen the secretions. I didn’t ask her to explain – it didn’t matter.

The tea a nurse had given me was now cold. My mouth was dry so I drank it anyway. My eyes were not dry.

I spoke in a whisper, “It’s okay, Babe. You can let go. I get it.”

A nurse checked on us. “How are you holding up? Can I get you a warm blanket?”

I gratefully accepted her offer.

“Do you think he will last long?”

“There is no way to know. It could be an hour or several. Play music on your phone," she said. "It will help you both.”

“Can he still hear?”

“I believe he can. Do you want me to call someone to sit with you?”

“No. I want to be alone with Rick.”

Music had always been a huge part of our lives, so after she left, I got my phone out and selected The Byrds.

“How’s that Babe? Can you hear it?” The first song that popped up was The Ballad of Easy Rider.

I don’t remember how long I sat next to him running my fingers over his hand and arm. Touching him. I silently wished over and over again for him to wake up and smile at me. To tell me one more time he loved me. I would never see him smile or hear him laugh. He would never kiss me again.

I watched my husband gradually stop breathing. When I was sure he had stopped, I called for the doctor. It was the same doctor who had been with us most of the night. He stayed over his shift to be there for me. He hugged me and said, “I’m sorry.”

I leaned over to kiss Rick one more time after the doctor had “pronounced” him. His lips were already cold.

It’s time to go now.