8:18pm, Friday, June 7, 2013
I’m sitting by Ian’s hospital bed while he thrashes, contorts his face, lifts a shaking hand… bedeviled by an unseen demon.
Today was a brutal day but with a small dose of better.
His fever is slipping away. His chest x-ray is less bad by a tiny but measurable margin. He’s using a more stylish breathing mask and still holding his own.
I’m watching him inch his way back to us.
He’s is. He’s coming back to us.
But now that he’s not underwater with sick, he knows how majorly this sucks. Everything hurts. Everything is hard. Everything is scary.
Food. Breathing. Drugs. Bathroom. Breathing. Bath. Breathing.
But he’s being buoyed by love… sent in words and colorful pillowcases, potato soup and banana bread, airport pick ups and rides for Lucy.
And for me, cups of tea and whispered prayers, food and flowers, future massages, brothers-in-law and brothers-in-arms, ballet moms and super dads, my sister and sisters-in-law, my mom and mom-in-laws, and the army of incredible women and men who hold my virtual hand, and would hurtle themselves across the country to hold my real one.
Today, Santa Monica fell to pieces and went to hell. Another fucking shooter, the President blocks away, and Lucy in lock down. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t feel my fingers.
Oh. Please. No.
Then a text from a kind friend. She’s with me. She’s safe. I’ll bring her to you. And I fell to my knees.
Tonight, Lucy’s chorus recorded their rehearsal in honor of her dad who won’t be there to cheer her on tomorrow. Ian and I held hands, heard our beautiful girl sing on a scratchy iPhone recording, and cried. Dumbstruck by where we suddenly are. And, so, so grateful, that we are not where might have been.