001 | all i am is the bones you made for me

[pinecones]

"I think that a lot of people would agree with the notion that to outlive your child is one of the most difficult and tragic possibilities that a parent could face in their lifetime, for whatever reason. It's the sort of situation you don't expect and could never prepare for, but there it is, getting under your skin and burrowing into your heart until all you're left with is a dusk. It may be a dramatic way of looking at it, but no less true for some. I wonder if these people would say the same for being forced to watch your child live whilst not alive. It's not exactly an oxymoron, not in a medical sense, and I shall tell you why. My daughter, Catherine, was in a car accident two years ago. She sustained multiple terrible injuries, including fractures in her collarbone, her tibia and femur, as well as three broken ribs and heavy bloody loss. In many ways it's miracle that she made it to the hospital still breathing, just about. She was stabilised, and - theoretically - saved, but I haven't heard her speak a word since it happened. Haven't heard her voice, seen her move or even blink, because on top of all the injuries from the accident, the worst and perhaps most prominent is the head trauma she incurred. Catherine has been in a coma for two years, and although her wounds have all since been treated and healed, leaving her just the same as she had always been, and although her heart beats as if she were awake, and her blood pressure stays mostly level, she lies like a dead body in a hospital, attached to a machine I can't bear to switch off. For two years, I've been waiting for something to change, never knowing if her body will suddenly give up or if she might finally open her eyes. With a distinct sigh of frustration, he suddenly stops, tired of listening to himself type, exhausted by a few paragraphs detailing what his life has consisted of for the past twenty four months. Of course, the research and the tests have been there for much longer than that, a scientific lifetime of twelve years has been spent trying to save those lives hanging in some ugly vacuum between life and death, but it suddenly became that much harder. It is much simpler to trial patients and accept lack of results with professional resignation when you are in no way connected to the patient, but when you are put in the shoes of the families waiting for answers, you realise how utterly dismal life becomes. Ian Morrison leans back in his chair, staring blankly at the computer screen in front of him. He has a habit nowadays of looking very faraway, like someone who has been lost for so long that they don't care any more where they end up. He used to be one of those very prim sort of scientists, the kind that wore immaculate suits beneath their lab coats and never had a hair out of place, without being pompous. He was always a quiet man, obtrusive and polite, if not a little distant. That hadn't changed; but in the space of two years he looked as if he'd aged ten.