Leaving

Needing to get out of the hospital. Sweat sticking to rubber pillows, body aching. I can’t get enough air.

I can’t stomach the hospital breakfast on my final morning. Your daddy and big sister bring me food and a latte. I feel almost human. I collect my things. Steve and I snap at each other, then hold each other, vowing to not let our grief come out sideways.

*****

They wheel me to the door and Ada holds my finger, dancing, while we wait for the car. The outside world makes me dizzy. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if I should head back in where it’s safe and surreal. I wonder if my incision is going to split open like my heart.

Steve drives us gently home.

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0 Responses to Leaving

  1. the definition of feeling human won’t ever be the same, will it? “vowing to not let our grief come out sideways” . . . yes.

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