My hand cannot reach for his. I'm rooted to the chair...a chasm opening between me and the exam table. The neurologist takes D's history, and I am left, my breath screaming in my lungs and my pulse ramming in my veins.
It's weird being on the other side of things. It's weird to feel the helplessness. When it was me, when I was the one on the table, it was somehow both easier and harder. I took some comfort knowing even if I didn't make it, he would.
MRIs, spinal taps, 12 vials of blood, and the endless waiting. All of it so familiar and unfamiliar. The doctors' offices, the bills, the missed work. We are haunted by what we cannot name.
I get home from work, and our house feels empty. Our dogs quietly lick my fingers. The only thing I hear is the rhythmic sound of his breath whispering in a dark room. How many times has it been my breath he listened to?
It's hard not to be angry right now. The "what a couple" jokes made privately sound hollow and pained from other mouths. I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at life.
So we wait, breath by breath. We wait, hoping/hating the answer that will likely come, to add another ribbon to our collection. What a pair we make.
