Nothing. I hated that word.
“There is nothing we can do,” we heard countless times from a variety of specialists.
When I first showed up at the hospital, I asked if he was awake yet. Nothing. That was what I got. No response. “Why isn’t he awake? When will he wake up?” Again, nothing. No response.
Nothing. That’s what they knew.
We transferred to a different hospital with supposedly better doctors. At least they gave us a response. But there was that word again. Nothing. There is nothing that can be done. There is no activity in the brain. The machine is making his heart beat and making his lungs fill with oxygen, but there is nothing going on in the brain. Callous. Hurtful.
I held my dad’s hand when they unplugged all of the machines. His heart beat its last, and his lungs refused to inflate, and then there was… nothing. Nothing but tears.
The prompt at Sunday Scribblings this week was... nothing.