Post by Artemis on Sept 20, 2012 11:46:23 GMT -5
This is a journal-style short-story I wrote. I was thinking I'd make it into a longer story if it's good and add more events from their lives.
January 3rd, 2009
I remember that day so clearly. Our wedding. It's like a video that's always stuck in my head, so I can play it back whenever I want. Every time I do, it's as clear as a summer sky. I'll never forget it. Henry was laughing and everbody was wearing priceless smiles of joy. It was a dream. A perfect dream.
I'm playing it now, as I stare out the window of my bed. It's not even my bed. Just a stiff metal and plastic hospital bed. The monitor is beeping in the back of my conscience and the IV keeps getting in my way. I wonder where my husband is. He said he'd come visit me. The rain is splashing on the window, making hollow drumming noises. I used to think the sound of rain was calming. Now it scares me. I might never hear it again.
Two weeks. It's been two weeks since I got sick. I've always been frail. As a kid, I got a bad bout of whooping cough and I had to be put on constant watch in case anything went wrong. It never did, but my body's been weak since then. I got sick again, two weeks ago, and the doctors never found out what was wrong. It cleared up, no trace of any illness.
It was that most recent sickness that brought about this. They know what it is this time. Meningitis. I'm not sure that I'll ever be the same. I don't know if I'll find out. I hear them talking, and I can see it on their faces. They don't know if I'll get better. They don't think I will.
As I stare out the window, the door opens and closes behind me. I tune back into the world a bit, and then Henry's worried face appears in front of me. I can't take it; it's too much. I try to give him a happy smile, anything to keep his hopes up. I don't smile. I cry. I lean into his shoulder and start crying. The last thing he needs. The last thing anybody needs. I can't help it.
We sit there, me leaning over the bed and wishing this never happened and him breaking down in the hospital chair as he holds me up. My fragile being that isn't me. He won't have anything left to hold onto much longer. He whispers to me, "It's okay, it's okay." I try to be comforted, but I'm not. Death won't ever be comforting. "Henry," I manage. "I'm scared. I'm really scared." He softly quiets me down. His eyes are telling me he is scared, too.
"You'll be alright, we'll make it through. We've made it three years, sweets." That's what we call each other. Sweets. I wish he wouldn't do that right now. It seems so normal. Nothing feels normal. It feels like it shouldn't be. Being here feels so wrong, but somehow, it feels like this was meant to be, too. I don't know why I can live with that. But I can live with being here, where at least somebody cares for me besides the nurses. Somebody who feels like I do. Afraid and helpless.
January 5th, 2009
Henry came to see me again today. He had a long day at work. That and the fact that I'm so ill is taking a toll on him. He's been in a rough spot lately. His boss wants to fire him since the company he works for Is merging with another one. They don't have room for him in the office anymore. We both re out of work now. I'm bedridden in this vile place and he's almost ready to cave.
I think he feels like it's his fault that things are so bad, even though it isn't. He knows it isn't but he can't help blaming himself. That's one of his bad traits. He always thinks somebody must take blame for every problem in life. Things don't just happen because they do with him. I told him that today, and he yelled at me. I shouldn't have said anything. I hate it when we fight. We almost never do, but I hate it when it happens. He walked out, too. He left me there. I felt alone, and guilty.
I'd promised myself that I wouldn't ever do that again. Two years ago, I did. We fought so much and I wanted to forget it all. We stuck it through, but just barely. It hurt having to feel like you were watching your step on a minefield. Especially when the person you love was the one blowing up on you.
My head hurt after that. It felt like it was caving in. My vision got blurry and I got a fever. My ears wouldn't stop ringing. The doctors must have called Henry because he came rushing into the room, wide-eyed and apologetic. I told him I was sorry. I really was. We both were.
January 8th, 2009
The doctors came in with Henry today. He was crying. They told me the tests had come back positive. My meningitis was worse. It had done that. Gone from bad to worse. They said it had been viral, which wasn't bad normally, just like a flu, with almost every one of the flu symptoms. It was my immune system that was so weak that let it get worse. It was bacterial now. The bad kind. The deadly kind. The only times I have seen Henry cry were when his grandmother died last April, and when I got sick. Now he was powerless to even try to comfort me. He was hysterical. He couldn't talk. He tried but he couldn't make any sound. I felt so sorry for him. Now I felt like it was my fault.
And it was.
January 10th, 2009
I woke up today, around 6 in the morning. I felt calm, but still sad. Henry had spent the night in my room at the hospital. He was already awake with tear stains on his face. He must have been watching me sleep, because his eyes went straight to the floor when I looked at him. He couldn't stand to be away from me. If I were dead, he'd follow me to heaven. No matter what.
I felt too weak to do anything. I talked to Henry for the whole day, until the sun started to set. We watched it together, the way we did on our wedding day. I closed my eyes and listened to him talk. And then I drifted off. I wasn't coming back, but I could live with that.
January 3rd, 2009
I remember that day so clearly. Our wedding. It's like a video that's always stuck in my head, so I can play it back whenever I want. Every time I do, it's as clear as a summer sky. I'll never forget it. Henry was laughing and everbody was wearing priceless smiles of joy. It was a dream. A perfect dream.
I'm playing it now, as I stare out the window of my bed. It's not even my bed. Just a stiff metal and plastic hospital bed. The monitor is beeping in the back of my conscience and the IV keeps getting in my way. I wonder where my husband is. He said he'd come visit me. The rain is splashing on the window, making hollow drumming noises. I used to think the sound of rain was calming. Now it scares me. I might never hear it again.
Two weeks. It's been two weeks since I got sick. I've always been frail. As a kid, I got a bad bout of whooping cough and I had to be put on constant watch in case anything went wrong. It never did, but my body's been weak since then. I got sick again, two weeks ago, and the doctors never found out what was wrong. It cleared up, no trace of any illness.
It was that most recent sickness that brought about this. They know what it is this time. Meningitis. I'm not sure that I'll ever be the same. I don't know if I'll find out. I hear them talking, and I can see it on their faces. They don't know if I'll get better. They don't think I will.
As I stare out the window, the door opens and closes behind me. I tune back into the world a bit, and then Henry's worried face appears in front of me. I can't take it; it's too much. I try to give him a happy smile, anything to keep his hopes up. I don't smile. I cry. I lean into his shoulder and start crying. The last thing he needs. The last thing anybody needs. I can't help it.
We sit there, me leaning over the bed and wishing this never happened and him breaking down in the hospital chair as he holds me up. My fragile being that isn't me. He won't have anything left to hold onto much longer. He whispers to me, "It's okay, it's okay." I try to be comforted, but I'm not. Death won't ever be comforting. "Henry," I manage. "I'm scared. I'm really scared." He softly quiets me down. His eyes are telling me he is scared, too.
"You'll be alright, we'll make it through. We've made it three years, sweets." That's what we call each other. Sweets. I wish he wouldn't do that right now. It seems so normal. Nothing feels normal. It feels like it shouldn't be. Being here feels so wrong, but somehow, it feels like this was meant to be, too. I don't know why I can live with that. But I can live with being here, where at least somebody cares for me besides the nurses. Somebody who feels like I do. Afraid and helpless.
January 5th, 2009
Henry came to see me again today. He had a long day at work. That and the fact that I'm so ill is taking a toll on him. He's been in a rough spot lately. His boss wants to fire him since the company he works for Is merging with another one. They don't have room for him in the office anymore. We both re out of work now. I'm bedridden in this vile place and he's almost ready to cave.
I think he feels like it's his fault that things are so bad, even though it isn't. He knows it isn't but he can't help blaming himself. That's one of his bad traits. He always thinks somebody must take blame for every problem in life. Things don't just happen because they do with him. I told him that today, and he yelled at me. I shouldn't have said anything. I hate it when we fight. We almost never do, but I hate it when it happens. He walked out, too. He left me there. I felt alone, and guilty.
I'd promised myself that I wouldn't ever do that again. Two years ago, I did. We fought so much and I wanted to forget it all. We stuck it through, but just barely. It hurt having to feel like you were watching your step on a minefield. Especially when the person you love was the one blowing up on you.
My head hurt after that. It felt like it was caving in. My vision got blurry and I got a fever. My ears wouldn't stop ringing. The doctors must have called Henry because he came rushing into the room, wide-eyed and apologetic. I told him I was sorry. I really was. We both were.
January 8th, 2009
The doctors came in with Henry today. He was crying. They told me the tests had come back positive. My meningitis was worse. It had done that. Gone from bad to worse. They said it had been viral, which wasn't bad normally, just like a flu, with almost every one of the flu symptoms. It was my immune system that was so weak that let it get worse. It was bacterial now. The bad kind. The deadly kind. The only times I have seen Henry cry were when his grandmother died last April, and when I got sick. Now he was powerless to even try to comfort me. He was hysterical. He couldn't talk. He tried but he couldn't make any sound. I felt so sorry for him. Now I felt like it was my fault.
And it was.
January 10th, 2009
I woke up today, around 6 in the morning. I felt calm, but still sad. Henry had spent the night in my room at the hospital. He was already awake with tear stains on his face. He must have been watching me sleep, because his eyes went straight to the floor when I looked at him. He couldn't stand to be away from me. If I were dead, he'd follow me to heaven. No matter what.
I felt too weak to do anything. I talked to Henry for the whole day, until the sun started to set. We watched it together, the way we did on our wedding day. I closed my eyes and listened to him talk. And then I drifted off. I wasn't coming back, but I could live with that.