17 November 2004
Marybeth
Carrie had a wicked sense of humor, enhanced by a talent for dead-on impressions and a (mostly) gentle mocking of those she cared most about. We all were the target of her skewering now and again--some more than others.
Carrie spent a week in the hospital in May 2002. It was a tough hospitalization--we'd thought she was beyond the risk of more infections since she was so close to finishing the intense phase of her treatment, her friend Ryan lay dying in the room next door, and we were scolded by Jacquie for postponing our trip to the ER by a couple of hours. It turned out Jacquie was right--the infection that caused the fever was triggered by a blood infection. We didn't really realize until the next year how quickly that can become devastating.
While she was hospitalized, Jeff had a business trip that he couldn't cancel, so I was juggling it all--the daily visits to the hospital to be with Carrie and the school day routine at home. We weren't in the habit of staying at the hospital overnight (that would come the following year) and we certainly knew and trusted her nurses, but I worried about her being alone at night. One night, the phone rang after I'd been sleeping awhile, but no one was there when I emerged from sleep and fumbled to answer it. I knew that Carrie's little red cell phone was never far from her side and I was concerned that she had tried to call me and I'd answered the phone too late, so I called the nurse's station, who assured me that Carrie was sleeping and fine. I asked Carrie about it the next day when I saw her, and she said she hadn't called. The next night, at about the same time (12:07 am), the same thing happened. I was convinced that Carrie's subconscious had called out to me, and that what I heard as a ringing phone was a need she was feeling. I found the prospect at least as comforting as unsettling--that I could sense her need even when distance separated us. I told her about it the next day in the hospital and she didn't try to persuade me otherwise.
She eventually came home from the hospital, attended Ryan's funeral, and began the "gentler" phase of treatment that allowed some hair to grow back and her summer of travel to begin. Weeks later, one sleepless night, I was noodling around on the computer when the phone rang. Like before, when I answered it, no one was there. This time, knowing Carrie was home and safe and, being alert, I realized that the time was midnight (not 12:07 as my bedside clock read), and the phone was programmed to ring at a factory-set alarm. Apparently, I'd slept more lightly than usual when Carrie was in the hospital and Jeff was away and the nightly ringing had awakened me only then.
The next morning over breakfast, I shared my discovery with Carrie. Her response? "Oh yeah, I figured that out weeks ago." "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. "I thought it was funny that you believed it," she said. I'm still not entirely convinced that my original conclusion--that I sensed from afar when she needed me--was wrong.