Hillary was dead. Slowly the realization came to us all as we backed away from the bed. A few nurses moved in and the doctor did the final examination. “She’s gone,” he said.

All of us were emotional, some more than others.

Greg was sobbing, clearly affected by this powerful woman and all of the hope she brought to him. Drew and Eric were silent–remembering their commitment ceremony I’m sure and her generosity of love.

The doctor dropped his stethoscope, “Take your time.” He left.

A nurse whispered, “Someone will have to find a funeral home.”

Without looking up, Maxfield said, “I’ll take care of it, I’ll call my secretary.”

“We’d all like to be all part of it,” I said. My voice was lighter than I’d ever felt.

Maxfield was still holding onto Hillary’s now limp hand, reminding me again that she was dead. His eyes were wet but no tears escaped him and I pitied his inability to release his sadness. As my friends and I cried harder and harder, Maxfield became sterner and sterner, as if a back brace was slowly being erected along his spine. His jaw retracted and his lips were glued like twigs. Then he said something almost without moving his mouth and what he stated stopped my body cold, “Steve,” he said, “You have to tell Steve.”

Quickly I remembered Hillary’s words, “Go and tell Steve how I am. Take care of him for me will you, I beg you,” she said, as if she knew what would happen. I whispered, “She asked me to tell him.”

“I know,” said Maxfield sternly.

Fran asked me to repeat myself because she couldn’t hear me. I almost couldn’t say it again, but I did and I could see the concern on everyone’s faces.

Driving to the hospital I figured I would tell Dr. Hawthorne first and then ask his opinion as to how I should go about this. Would it be best for a guard to be present when I told Steve the news? When I got there, Dr. Hawthorne and I quickly concurred on the best procedure and realized it would be best to do it right away.

The guard James unlocked the door and a surge of fear and sadness overcame me. I wanted to retreat, but it was too late. Steve sat at the end of his bed and when he saw the two of us, I could tell he knew something was serious by the resentment of emotion on his face.

“What’s up?” Steve asked, his eyes darting to the floor.

“I’m afraid we have bad news,” mumbled Dr. Hawthorne.

Steve screwed his index finger into his ear, wiping it clear of wax. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

I stepped forward and before I even spoke my words, I knew I would stutter. “S-S-Steve, Hillary is dead.”

Steve was quiet and unreactive. Finally, he looked up, “What’s on the menu tonight, do you know?”

He didn’t hear me so I continued. “She didn’t make it. She had a stroke during the operation resulting in a coma. She had signed a DNR. I’m so sorry.”

For all his expertise, I could tell Dr. Hawthorne didn’t know what to do. I asked Steve if he had any questions about his mother.

“I have a question about dinner. If you want to make me feel better, you’ll tell me what’s on the menu.”

“I don’t know, Steve.”

Nodding towards the guard, Steve accused, “I bet James would know.”

“Cabbage and cornbeef,” mumbled the large man.

Outraged, Steve jumped up, “Why did you say it like that? You said it that way just to confuse me and make me mad. It’s cornbeef and cabbage! It’s cornbeef and cabbage!”

We left and Steve was still mumbling about the audacity of the guard and it was clear to me that Steve was not only a multi-personality mess, but that Hillary’s death would either propel him towards healing or out-of-control violence.