Let Me Take Off My Invisible Super Hero Cape For A Minute...

Sometimes I worry that I'm an over-helper.

When I hear that a friend has suffered a loss, or a family member is sick, or someone I love had a bad day, I immediately want to jump in with both feet and help.  I'm the one who offers to get your mail, feed your dog, or fold your laundry. I'm the one who scours the internet for articles specific to your plight, sends them to you in an email, triple-checks every hour to make sure you know I sent them in that email, and then sends them to you in a text message just to be sure you got the info. I'm the one who wants to show up with a casserole, two pies, and a week's worth of magazines.

I know, I know. I'm sure most of you are thinking, "Oh, she must be a nice friend to have!"

Maybe. But I worry.

A lot of my desire to help comes from that period in our lives when Brian had first been diagnosed with cancer. Each and every person---from the maintenance workers at the hospitals to the dear friends who dropped off sub sandwiches so we wouldn't have to cook---were so very valuable to us. I'll never forget the kindnesses we were shown--from friends, from family, from nurses and doctors and surgeons and techs. It was the only thing that kept us standing, kept us moving toward a destination rather than staying stagnant, cooped up in our own sorrow and fear.

And so, when I hear there's trouble in the neighborhood, I feel called to action, ready to offer my services in any way, no matter what is needed.

I show up with my casserole and my two pies and my week's worth of magazines, hoping that the help I'm offering is appreciated. Wanting to be helpful. Wanting to be valued. What I tend to forget, in my gusto, is that every person reacts differently in any given situation. Where I might be thrilled to my toes to hear the doorbell, my friend may rather be left in peace to deal with life in their own way. 

And sometimes, their own way doesn't include a stack of magazines three miles high.

I'm glad now, looking back, that I wasn't given much time to grieve and worry and pace. Relieved that our friends and family filled the scariest moments with conversation, casseroles, and consolation. I know, for us, that it was exactly what we needed.

I think it makes sense, then, that my immediate reaction to a friend in need is to don my "Save The World" cape and swoop in to save the day. Often with baked goods and some form of mindless entertainment.

So I'm learning to offer a kind word instead of a pot of chicken noodle soup every once in awhile. I'm trying to hold back that part of me that wants to rush to everyone's rescue when, in fact, they may not need rescuing at all. But above all else I'm trying to remember that, while a stack of magazines a mile high might just be the ticket to someone's happiness, it might just be coffee table clutter for another one to deal with later.

But don't worry. If you give me the green light, I'm still going to offer to bring them over. Especially if you haven't read the latest issue of "O." But I won't be offended if you say no.

Three-Hundred and Sixty Five Days (Times Two)

Today marks an anniversary--not the kind of anniversary that you celebrate with chocolates or roses or prettily wrapped gifts. Instead, it's one we are learning to remember with gratitude, reverence, and humility. 

Two years ago, on this date, my husband was in surgery having a life-threatening tumor removed from his colon.

Today, I choose to think about how far we've come since that day. I'm going to focus on how many accomplishments he has achieved since he faced his mortality at the age of thirty. I want to revel in the adventures, the moments of laughter, the memories we've shared in the past two years. 

Our lives are irreversibly changed, but for the better. I know that we have laughed more frequently, lived more wholly, and loved more completely. We both are reminded, on a daily basis, of how much we had to lose. All it takes is a glimpse of the purple scar that runs the length of my husband's abdomen to remember what could have been.

If nothing else has been accomplished in these seven hundred and thirty days, then there is one thing we can both be proud of. Something about the C-word, about surviving it and finding a life fulfilled after it, has driven us both to follow our dreams. Brian is thriving in nursing school and graduates in December. And I've followed my passion and started writing again--first with this blog, with a novel (hopefully) on the horizon. 

When I read back over the blogs I've written here, the one that stands out the most for me is the post I wrote last year on this date, detailing the day of Brian's surgery.  It was one of the hardest, but most rewarding, things I've ever written. It feels fitting to re-post it here, with only a small edit at the end.

Now onward, upward, to the life we are so excited to share together.

Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days

The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. We wake in the same position in which we fell asleep: flat on our backs, staring at the ceiling, our hands still clutched together between us. It brought enough comfort in the night to allow us to sleep, even for a few short hours.

My husband gets up without a word. The shower and the antimicrobial surgical soap are waiting.

I make the bed, wake his Aunt Tina, start the coffee maker. I debate for 5 solid minutes over whether I should lay out his clothes for him. I decide to do it. This isn't a normal day, so why should I act like it is?

Dressed and completely awake, we decide to get an early start to the hospital. The interstate is deserted. I'm unused to driving in the dark, and the empty highway startles me. Our headlights slice through the pitch black, and only road signs greet us along our asphalt path. For twenty minutes, we are silent. The radio plays quietly in the background. Tina asks me a question, I answer it. Brian sits in the seat next to me, hands folded in his lap. He tries to appear calm, but I can see the nerves dancing under his skin.

As we pull into the parking lot the sky just begins to turn pink. Morning has officially arrived. We gather our belongings--bags and afghans and books and sweaters. Changes of clothing. Warm socks. We trek to the sliding glass doors, a small caravan of modern day nomads.

The fluorescent lights are much too bright. I feel like I want sunglasses. Tina takes our stuff and makes a beeline for the waiting room "to get us comfy seats near the coffee maker." I smile. Brian and I head the other direction. I stare at the dark blue veins under the skin of his hand as he signs his name and hands over his driver's license. I rub my fingers down his back. He smiles weakly.

We sit. We wait. It feels like days, but it's only minutes. He plays Angry Birds. Tina and I make small talk. I want to stand up, pace, fidget. Finally, they call his name. And we walk back to finish the paperwork. I could let him go alone, but I can't abide it. So I squeeze in to the little cubicle with him. I listen as he answers the same 25 questions he's been asked so frequently these last few weeks. He jokes with the nurse who taps away on the keys of her computer. We sign where we're told to sign. 

They send us to another office. Here we go over how the surgery will happen. What the doctors will do. What we can expect. This nurse has less information for us than she likes. She keeps looking as his file, glancing at her computer monitor, swishing her mouse in search of more facts.

"Did the surgeons tell you what recovery was going to be like?" she asks gently.

No. We don't know what to expect because they won't know how bad it is, and they won't until they open up my husband's abdomen.

She nods once, plasters a smile on her face, and continues to walk us through the surgery plans she's aware of.

At this point we are separated. They take him back to prep him. I can't go. It's the first time we've been separated since the cytoscopy. I feel the panic start to creep up and I stamp it down quickly. No time for that now. He kisses me, squeezes my hand, and disappears through the thick wooden doors.

Thirty five minutes later my parents arrive. Dad hugs me, Mom squeezes my arm. I tell them all that has happened. They ask if they will get to see him before the surgeons take him to the OR. I say yes, we should get to go back any minute. Moments later they come for me. We pick up our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head to his room. 

Brian lays on the gurney in his blue cotton gown. It looks so thin, I immediately want to ask for a blanket. He has a shower cap on his head, and blue booties on his feet. He's already got an IV in each arm. His skin looks grey in the too-bright lights.

Mom goes over to him immediately and smooths back his hair. "How ya feelin', kiddo?" she asks. She's been so strong throughout this whole ordeal. My heart swells. Dad and Tina talk about everything but why we're here. The C-word hasn't been used once today. We're denying its existence even as we are trying to eradicate it from my husband's body.

One of Brian's surgeons knocks and comes into the room. He is young and handsome and calm and kind. Brian and I share a secret smile--he's known in our house as Dr. Superman. I can feel Brian's nerves begin to settle as Dr. Superman walks us once again through the procedure. He reaches out a hand to me when he mentions how unsure they are of the outcome. "We won't know how much the tumor has spread until we're able to get a good look at it. It could be attached to his colon. It could be on his bladder. If it has infiltrated the wall of his bladder we will have to remove it. I don't think that will happen, but you need to be prepared for that." He gives my hand a squeeze. My heart is in my throat.

The activity in the room increases. There's no room for us in there anymore as nurses and doctors hover over my husband. We're allowed to kiss him goodbye. I lean over him and we lock eyes. A tear escapes even as I swallow a sob. "I love you to the moon and back," we say. And we're ushered back to the waiting room.

I can't stand it. I can't sit there and wait. So I leave Tina and my parents and I head to the financial aid office. I spend an hour asking questions, filling out paperwork, discussing our options with a social worker. I get a sense of calm knowing I've accomplished something. When there's nothing left to do I go back to the waiting room.

I keep waiting for the phone at the nurse's station to ring. It doesn't. Why aren't they calling? Shouldn't they call for an update? It's been nearly 2 hours and I'm beginning to worry. I'm contemplating getting up and asking the volunteer about it as Dr. Superman rounds the corner in his scrubs. He looks grim. My heart begins pounding so loudly I can't hear anything else. He asks to speak to us in a private room. Episodes of ER and Grey's Anatomy flash into my mind. The private rooms are bad. They only take you to the private rooms for bad news. My knees buckle. Someone steers me by the arm.

Dr. Superman turns the knob on the private room's door and it is locked. "Well, I don't have a key," he says. "And I don't want to keep you in the dark anymore. The surgery was a success. We got the entire tumor."

I don't realize I'm holding my breath until it all comes out at once. The tears that have been living behind my eyes for 3 weeks come out in a flood. My Dad is smiling, my Mom is crying, and Tina has a look of relief on her face I didn't anticipate. She never looked worried for a second before this moment. Now I realize she's been holding me up for days.

I hear only bits of everything else Dr. Superman says. The tumor was larger than they expected. His surgical scar will be about 10 inches long. The tumor was the size of a Nerf football and was only attached by a fiber to his colon.  Brian is going to be fine. He won't even have to endure chemotherapy. Dr. Superman gathers me into a hug and his reputation as a superhero is solidified.

We flutter back into the waiting room like so many birds. We are light on our feet, there's a song in our hearts. We each grab for a cell phone and begin the process of spreading the good news. I call Brian's Dad first. Then my brother. Then Brian's boss. I email and Facebook and text message. I could literally dance a jig in the middle of the hospital.

We're told Brian is on his way from recovery to his room on the top floor. We grab our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head for the elevator. We beat him up there. We stand in the hallway, afraid to occupy a room this isn't rightfully ours yet. The nurses see our posse and begin rounding up chairs. It's a private room, and we're all impressed that Brian will be treated like a VIP while in house. 

I hear the elevator doors open and a gurney coming down the hall. There is my husband, back in his blue cotton gown. The booties and shower cap are gone. They maneuver the bed into the room, plug in all his equipment, and retreat. I dash to his bedside, lean over him and say his name. I'm desperate to touch him, to connect with him, but there are so many wires.

Groggily, his eyelids open and I all see is ocean blue. He takes a moment to focus on me, and smiles weakly. "How'd I do?" he asks. 

I run my fingers carefully through his hair, down his face, and smile at him, wanting him to see nothing but joy and excitement and exhilaration in my face. "They got it, baby. They got it all. You're gonna be just fine."

"That's good," he says, and drifts back to sleep.

My family talks quietly in the background. I watch my husband sleeping, and I allow myself to take in everything I see. I wrap my fingers around his bony wrist, stare at his chest as it rises and falls, wait for the pulse I can see in the vein of his neck. I'm no fool. I know recovery is going to be long and difficult. I know he's going to wake up when the drugs wear off and he's going to be in tremendous pain. I know we're going to be living at this hospital for a week, maybe more.

But nothing could tramp down the feeling of good fortune in my heart.

It's October 25, 2010.
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One year later...

The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. I feel my husband roll out of bed. For the next 30 minutes, I drift between sleep and awake. I can hear him rummaging about in the bathroom, opening drawers quietly, brushing his teeth. My eyes open when I hear him close the bedroom door behind him. It takes me less than a moment to remember what today is, to remember why he's up at all.

I climb out of bed. The lamp from the living room is too bright. I shield my eyes. 

Brian sits at the computer desk. He's dressed all in white.

I pad over to him, wrap my arms around his shoulders, rest my chin on his head. "Mornin' handsome," I say sleepily. 

"What are you doing up?" he asks. "It's too early."

"I just wanted to say hi, and have fun today." I say.

He stands up, wraps his arms around me, kisses me on the forehead. "I've gotta get going." he says. "It's a long drive to the hospital."

"Have a good day in class," I say. He pats me on the rear and I head back to the comforts of my bed.

It's October 25, 2011. What a difference a year makes. 
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Two years later...

The alarm clock blares into the semi-darkness. It's 8:00 a.m. The house is empty and quiet as I take my seat at the computer, hot cup of coffee in hand. I was aware of what day it was the moment I woke up, and know without asking that Brian does, too.

But I asked him anyway. Last night, the television blaring, his laptop open to the last throes of nursing school paperwork, I asked him. Quietly, so as not to bring too much attention to the subject, I asked, "So you know what tomorrow is, right?"

"Yes," he replied, and continued typing away at his homework.

And that was it. 

I turned back to the television, determined not to say another word about it.

After a moment, I felt his hand on my foot. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. And the cancer that once loomed over our lives, determined to take Brian hostage, retreated into the recesses of our minds again. Beaten.

We have nothing but our lives ahead of us now.

It's October 25, 2012. And we are two years Cancer Free.

Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days

The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. We wake in the same position in which we fell asleep: flat on our backs, staring at the ceiling, our hands still clutched together between us. It brought enough comfort in the night to allow us to sleep, even for a few short hours.


My husband gets up without a word. The shower and the antimicrobial surgical soap are waiting.


I make the bed, wake his Aunt Tina, start the coffee maker. I debate for 5 solid minutes over whether I should lay out his clothes for him. I decide to do it. This isn't a normal day, so why should I act like it is?


Dressed and completely awake, we decide to get an early start to the hospital. The interstate is deserted. I'm unused to driving in the dark, and the empty highway startles me. Our headlights slice through the pitch black, and only road signs greet us along our asphalt path. For twenty minutes, we are silent. The radio plays quietly in the background. Tina asks me a question, I answer it. Brian sits in the seat next to me, hands folded in his lap. He tries to appear calm, but I can see the nerves dancing under his skin.


As we pull into the parking lot the sky just begins to turn pink. Morning has officially arrived. We gather our belongings--bags and afghans and books and sweaters. Changes of clothing. Warm socks. We trek to the sliding glass doors, a small caravan of modern day nomads.


The fluorescent lights are much too bright. I feel like I want sunglasses. Tina takes our stuff and makes a beeline for the waiting room "to get us comfy seats near the coffee maker." I smile. Brian and I head the other direction. I stare at the dark blue veins under the skin of his hand as he signs his name and hands over his driver's license. I rub my fingers down his back. He smiles weakly.


We sit. We wait. It feels like days, but it's only minutes. He plays Angry Birds. Tina and I make small talk. I want to stand up, pace, fidget. Finally, they call his name. And we walk back to finish the paperwork. I could let him go alone, but I can't abide it. So I squeeze in to the little cubicle with him. I listen as he answers the same 25 questions he's been asked so frequently these last few weeks. He jokes with the nurse who taps away on the keys of her computer. We sign where we're told to sign. 


They send us to another office. Here we go over how the surgery will happen. What the doctors will do. What we can expect. This nurse has less information for us than she likes. She keeps looking as his file, glancing at her computer monitor, swishing her mouse in search of more facts.


"Did the surgeons tell you what recovery was going to be like?" she asks gently.


No. We don't know what to expect because they won't know how bad it is, and they won't until they open up my husband's abdomen.


She nods once, plasters a smile on her face, and continues to walk us through the surgery plans she's aware of.


At this point we are separated. They take him back to prep him. I can't go. It's the first time we've been separated since the cytoscopy. I feel the panic start to creep up and I stamp it down quickly. No time for that now. He kisses me, squeezes my hand, and disappears through the thick wooden doors.


Thirty five minutes later my parents arrive. Dad hugs me, Mom squeezes my arm. I tell them all that has happened. They ask if they will get to see him before the surgeons take him to the OR. I say yes, we should get to go back any minute. Moments later they come for me. We pick up our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head to his room. 


Brian lays on the gurney in his blue cotton gown. It looks so thin, I immediately want to ask for a blanket. He has a shower cap on his head, and blue booties on his feet. He's already got an IV in each arm. His skin looks grey in the too-bright lights.


Mom goes over to him immediately and smooths back his hair. "How ya feelin', kiddo?" she asks. She's been so strong throughout this whole ordeal. My heart swells. Dad and Tina talk about everything but why we're here. The C-word hasn't been used once today. We're denying its existence even as we are trying to eradicate it from my husband's body.


One of Brian's surgeons knocks and comes into the room. He is young and handsome and calm and kind. Brian and I share a secret smile--he's known in our house as Dr. Superman. I can feel Brian's nerves begin to settle as Dr. Superman walks us once again through the procedure. He reaches out a hand to me when he mentions how unsure they are of the outcome. "We won't know how much the tumor has spread until we're able to get a good look at it. It could be attached to his colon. It could be on his bladder. If it has infiltrated the wall of his bladder we will have to remove it. I don't think that will happen, but you need to be prepared for that." He gives my hand a squeeze. My heart is in my throat.


The activity in the room increases. There's no room for us in there anymore as nurses and doctors hover over my husband. We're allowed to kiss him goodbye. I lean over him and we lock eyes. A tear escapes even as I swallow a sob. "I love you to the moon and back," we say. And we're ushered back to the waiting room.


I can't stand it. I can't sit there and wait. So I leave Tina and my parents and I head to the financial aid office. I spend an hour asking questions, filling out paperwork, discussing our options with a social worker. I get a sense of calm knowing I've accomplished something. When there's nothing left to do I go back to the waiting room.


I keep waiting for the phone at the nurse's station to ring. It doesn't. Why aren't they calling? Shouldn't they call for an update? It's been nearly 2 hours and I'm beginning to worry. I'm contemplating getting up and asking the volunteer about it as Dr. Superman rounds the corner in his scrubs. He looks grim. My heart begins pounding so loudly I can't hear anything else. He asks to speak to us in a private room. Episodes of ER and Grey's Anatomy flash into my mind. The private rooms are bad. They only take you to the private rooms for bad news. My knees buckle. Someone steers me by the arm.


Dr. Superman turns the knob on the private room's door and it is locked. "Well, I don't have a key," he says. "And I don't want to keep you in the dark anymore. The surgery was a success. We got the entire tumor."


I don't realize I'm holding my breath until it all comes out at once. The tears that have been living behind my eyes for 3 weeks come out in a flood. My Dad is smiling, my Mom is crying, and Tina has a look of relief on her face I didn't anticipate. She never looked worried for a second before this moment. Now I realize she's been holding me up for days.


I hear only bits of everything else Dr. Superman says. The tumor was larger than they expected. His surgical scar will be about 10 inches long. The tumor was the size of a Nerf football and was only attached by a fiber to his colon.  Brian is going to be fine. He won't even have to endure chemotherapy. Dr. Superman gathers me into a hug and his reputation as a superhero is solidified.


We flutter back into the waiting room like so many birds. We are light on our feet, there's a song in our hearts. We each grab for a cell phone and begin the process of spreading the good news. I call Brian's Dad first. Then my brother. Then Brian's boss. I email and Facebook and text message. I could literally dance a jig in the middle of the hospital.


We're told Brian is on his way from recovery to his room on the top floor. We grab our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head for the elevator. We beat him up there. We stand in the hallway, afraid to occupy a room this isn't rightfully ours yet. The nurses see our posse and begin rounding up chairs. It's a private room, and we're all impressed that Brian will be treated like a VIP while in house. 


I hear the elevator doors open and a gurney coming down the hall. There is my husband, back in his blue cotton gown. The booties and shower cap are gone. They maneuver the bed into the room, plug in all his equipment, and retreat. I dash to his bedside, lean over him and say his name. I'm desperate to touch him, to connect with him, but there are so many wires.


Groggily, his eyelids open and I all see is ocean blue. He takes a moment to focus on me, and smiles weakly. "How'd I do?" he asks. 


I run my fingers carefully through his hair, down his face, and smile at him, wanting him to see nothing but joy and excitement and exhilaration in my face. "They got it, baby. They got it all. You're gonna be just fine."


"That's good," he says, and drifts back to sleep.


My family talks quietly in the background. I watch my husband sleeping, and I allow myself to take in everything I see. I wrap my fingers around his bony wrist, stare at his chest as it rises and falls, wait for the pulse I can see in the vein of his neck. I'm no fool. I know recovery is going to be long and difficult. I know he's going to wake up when the drugs wear off and he's going to be in tremendous pain. I know we're going to be living at this hospital for a week, maybe more.


But nothing could tramp down the feeling of good fortune in my heart.


It's October 25, 2010.
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One year later...


The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. I feel my husband roll out of bed. For the next 30 minutes, I drift between sleep and awake. I can hear him rummaging about in the bathroom, opening drawers quietly, brushing his teeth. My eyes open when I hear him close the bedroom door behind him. It takes me less than a moment to remember what today is, to remember why he's up at all.


I climb out of bed. The lamp from the living room is too bright. I shield my eyes. 


Brian sits at the computer desk. He's dressed all in white.


I pad over to him, wrap my arms around his shoulders, rest my chin on his head. "Mornin' handsome," I say sleepily. 


"What are you doing up?" he asks. "It's too early."


"I just wanted to say hi, and have fun today." I say.


He stands up, wraps his arms around me, kisses me on the forehead. "I've gotta get going." he says. "It's a long drive to the hospital."


"Have a good day in class," I say. He pats me on the rear and I head back to the comforts of my bed.


It's October 25, 2011. What a difference a year makes.  

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This post is dedicated to my husband, Brian, who celebrates one year cancer free today. He is my heart. I love you to infinity and beyond, babe.

Be Enough Me: The Day I Became An Adult

My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer in February of 2003.

My Mommy and me, circa 1985.

I remember sitting on the dusty boxes in the storage room of the bookstore where I worked, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder. My hands went numb, and my heart stopped beating in my chest.

In those brief moments when my father told me they'd found a lump in my mother's breast, and that she would be having surgery to remove it, I instantly changed.

Before that phone call, I was just a senior in college. Brian and I were busy making plans, thinking about our wedding, dreaming of moving to the sunny South Carolina coast. The most worrisome things in our lives were making rent, studying for exams, and figuring out how to get Kool Aid stains out of the carpet. I was young. Carefree. A child on the cusp of maturity.

It took two words to snap me into adulthood. "Breast Cancer."

I wanted to scream and cry and shake my fist at the world. I wanted to drive home, pack a bag, and race to my mother's side. I wanted to hug my Daddy, and cry with my Mommy. I wanted to comfort my younger brother, and I wanted him to comfort me. I wanted my family.

The last family portrait taken before I got married.

But I couldn't. I knew, as I placed the phone back in it's cradle, that I had responsibilities in my own life that I had to deal with first, before I could have all that I needed in that one moment.

So instead, I finished out my shift at the bookstore. Then I went to class. I made arrangements to take a test early that I knew I'd miss when I went home for my Mom's surgery. I called around to co-workers and got my next few shifts covered. I phoned the editor at the newspaper I was interning for and let him know I'd be out of town for a week, and when he asked me to finish the story I'd been working on, I did so and forwarded it to his inbox. I deposited my paycheck so Brian would have funds available to pay the rent while I was gone. 

That night, I collapsed into Brian's arms. I cried for my mother, and the pain I knew she would endure. I cried for the unknown, the uncertainty that comes with chemo and radiation. I cried for my father, knowing he'd have to be strong enough to carry this burden without shedding tears. And I cried for the girl I was, knowing in some way that I was leaving her behind.

Cancer is life altering. It is terrifying, and sobering, and invasive. It makes decisions for you that take your life on an unexpected, unplanned course.

And for a 21-year-old college kid, it launched her into adulthood.

♥My Mom. My Friend. And Breast Cancer Survivor.♥

I'm proud to say that my Mom beat Cancer, and has been healthy and cancer-free since 2003. She may have lost her hair during chemo, and she may have suffered the effects of radiation, but she's stronger than even she knows. Love you, Mom.  

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Nightmare

Fear has a way of finding you when you least expect it. Sneaking into your bedroom at night, closing its hands around your throat, whittling its way into your mind while you sleep. Some nights fear is gentle in its assault, easing its way into pleasant dreams. Other nights it rushes in, shaking you awake in a cold sweat. 


And it takes hours to wipe it all away.

I wake in a panic, familiar images of sterile gowns, blinking red lights, and IV stands still swirling in front of my eyes. I feel tears sliding down my cheeks, into my hair, wetting the pillow case. All I know for sure is that it is night time. The moon shines through my window, not enough to illuminate the room, just enough to give me a vague idea of the time. My breathing sounds haggard. Loud. Labored. I'm disoriented. Unsure of my surroundings. Unsure if I'm alone.


I reach out in the dark, fingers sliding over soft sheets. Searching for warmth. My hand stops on fur, a sleeping cat curled up close. I pause for a moment, seeking comfort by sliding my hand slowly over kitty's head, back, leg. And then continue my search through the dark for who I'm really reaching for.


My heart rate stalls, then slows as I close my fingers around his wrist. Warm. Present. Alive. I curl into him, concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Into the dark, I sigh and whisper, "He's fine. He's fine. He's fine," until my panic subsides.


It takes me about an hour to find my calm so I can sleep again. And he sleeps through it, not knowing the nightmare that interrupts my slumber.


I wake a few hours later, still curled into him, still gripping his wrist. The sun had begun its climb into the sky. Dawn chases the rest of the nightmare from the room, like dusting the dregs from the corners.

I release my husband's wrist, study the way his eyelashes curl on his cheek--his cheek that is pink with life--and smile. I roll over, facing the window. My last thought before I slip back into a dreamless sleep: it's cloudy. I wonder if it will rain today.