People forget years and remember moments. (Ann Beattie)
I missed two fun events that featured music and song. Singing makes my soul feel rich and full. There will be other opportunities, and I need to forget about times that cannot be retrieved.
This moment demands all my attention: a darkened hospital room where my husband recovers from surgery—from an unexpected but not life-threatening condition. Details are unnecessary. Insert any life crisis here: health, trauma, devastating news…
I go home overnight, and then return to the same colonial-blue couch in a standard white hospital room. The situation worsens. Yet the sun shines and I try to gather its rays deeper than any surface can allow.
My husband picks up a newspaper and puts on his glasses. He reads. Even if the news predicts Armageddon on every page, he’s awake, alive. And I celebrate our relationship as the IV piggyback dose of Phenergan, for nausea, puts him to sleep again.
Yesterday I called and let my sons know Dad will be staying at the hospital longer than anticipated. They rearranged their work schedules to be here. My sister-in-law and niece, both nurses arrived. They asked the right questions. These are not the blessings I asked for.
But, they are gifts nevertheless. I wait for a better tomorrow, yet live in today.
terrypetersen 