The incessant beeping of monitors, and the tangling of intravenous lines was something I thought I would only spy after we were eighty-years-old. I wanted to see a wrinkled-face man staring back at me... Not someone not even thirty, not someone who wasn't even the father of our unborn children, not someone who had not shared countless, wonderful memories with me.
I love the fact that you're still breathing air, but the fact that no one can point either of us in a direction to smile about bothers me. I haven't returned to work yet, because I'm terrified that I'll come home and things will only be getting worse.
We haven't been married a year, and already on repeat in my mind is doing everything to keep you living just a month longer. I know the medical bills are only piling up, and I know I'm only being a bitch about the money situation (our wonderful debt)... But I dare not speak about any of this to you because I only want you to be strong... I only want you to have the motivation to conquer what little of this ordeal you can, based on the odds.
Damn the day that another social worker gives me the paperwork to sign as a power of attorney.