at the bedside

He didn't simply walk into my life. He came marching in with a purpose. He didn't want to judge like all the others, he wanted to lift me up. Yesterday I sat at his bedside, gently tucking his hair behind his ear, carefully kissing his forehead. He's been unconscious for a while. I lean on the rail of his bed with my elbows and study the mechanical rising and falling of his chest. I do this often. When he's asleep and surrounded by machines, what else am I supposed to do? I've probably looked him over a million times since he came out of surgery. I do it again: slowly looking him over from top to bottom. Every catheter, every IV, every dressing. His chest is exposed and I count the sutures that creep along his sternum. I'm reminded of how most people probably wouldn't be able to look at him like this. His father rarely enters the room; he sits outside in a desk chair and watches me be strong through the glass door. I'm used to it. If I didn't let the hospital fascinate me, I'd get too upset by it all.

I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm made of something easily broken. I sit on my bed, entertain myself with Netflix, and hold very still. Then, when my mind starts to shift towards him again, I pick up my knitting. Then I start browsing the internet on my phone. Distraction is sometimes the best medicine. I'm grateful for quiet days with lots of friendly distractions.

He came bounding into my life, unannounced. I had no idea what wonderful, tragic, beautiful thing we had started.