Marveling at the unfairness of it all.
Fluorescent lights and a constant stream of strangers.
Looking for a cure. An answer. Comfort.
Waiting for a buoy of good news in a sea of what seems impossible.
Watching a 5-year old on the cusp of kindergarten carefully snuggle into his grandmother’s familiar arms.
I feel robbed.
He feels robbed.
When Grandma feels better, she will go for walks with me again, right Momma?
Yes Butter, she sure will.
I don’t know how you do it.
I don’t know how you tell your Mom,
It’s okay. It’s up to you. We’ll support whatever you want to do.
And watch her look away.
Staring at the clock on the wall in room #316.
I don’t know how you give your battered heart permission to hope and grieve all in the same moment.
Except that you do it for her.
You do it for the relief across her beloved face.
You do it for the release for her battle-worn mind.
You do it for her peace.
And you realize again that you fiercely love the man who has tenderly said this to his irreplaceable mother.
And you realize that in a bustling hospital filled with modern day wonders… that it is completely out of your hands. And that a miracle trumps everything.
Love her with every breath.
And remember Butter, love wins. Love wins.