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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