Atomictumor

That wasn’t the last post of the night.

The house is quiet.  Everybody’s in bed.  I don’t want to sleep because I’m fearful that the phone might wake me up.  If I stay up, it might not happen.

At night, if GAC is sick, it gets a little worse.  I hear thats normal, to some extent.  Maybe the pull of the sun does something to our cells.  I was outside earlier, looking at the sky, and the stars, and the significant things, and thinking about the cells in her body.  Thinking about the world in her head.  A world bigger than the sun, and the stars.

Somebody once told me that Stephen Hawking said that he believed when you die, you become as a god, because the energy that consciousness is turns inward, or something like that.  Maybe it was that because of the whole matter/energy thing.  I don’t remember.  It sounded nice at the time, but I was probably stoned.

Its night, and I’m afraid to call Nate at the hospital.  I’m afraid he’ll tell me that her BP went back down.  Turns out I was wrong about the BP medicine after all, they really didn’t take her off enough of it to be worth a damn.  I just took that and ran with it, and it was hollow.

How many days can be like today?  How many people go through this, silently, in the next car.  When the world is normal, and you’re worried about getting to work on time, or realized you forgot a dental appointment, or just mad at your wife for something stupid that you don’t remember, how many people around you are feeling this?

10 hours until … no, 11 hours until I can see her.  But its not her.  She’s reacting, but I’m not as sure now that its really not just twitches that my mind, desperate for her being, interprets.

How can I sleep when she’s hurting.

I’m hurting.  I know I’m hurting you guys.  Mom told me that I’m sharing the grief, that its the whole “but by the grace of God” thing.  I hope it helps.  I hope that one day I’ll be telling you about the truly insignificant things like how Ford and Corker both look like wieners, or how the RIAA sucks, or how they’re digging a hole in the street.  I’d love to fade back into the kind of insignificants (sorry, spelling really sucks tonight) that I’d have if my wife were awake, and we’d gone to bed watching Office downloads.

I tell MastaG that tomorrow will still be Sunday, and that Monday will still come after that. It seems to work for him, but he’s not terrified of the cellphone charging at the foot of the bed.

Thanks for being there.  I can feel you, peering through the 1s and 0s into my grief and my terror.

GAC will read this, right?

…

I love you, BJ, so very, very, very much.  You are the most precious thing.  Sleep free from pain, sleep free from fear.  The God that we denied for years is watching you and keeping you.  Come back to me.

Good night.  I don’t think I’m going to sleep yet.

This entry was posted on Saturday, November 4th, 2006 at 11:22 pm and is filed under Pain. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.