The Fight (Republished)

Chapter 9: Breakdown

Strength is what my husband saw in me, but at this very moment, I don't see it at all. Not even for a split second do I believe that any form of strength resides within my body anymore. It's been wiped clean like a scalpel before surgery.

I finally brought the kids to the hospital today. Our oldest boy understands the situation the best at the age of fourteen, but the younger kids don't quite grasp the seriousness. Our youngest daughter is five, so I carried her for the most part. She squirmed and was super shy when we arrived in my husband's hospital room. He laid there, sleeping in peace as his machine pumped pain medications and IV into his system like it had since the first day he was admitted. He was looking much worse now than he had the last time I saw him, which was a little over a week ago.

Life had become so hectic for me between taking care of the kids, working, paying bills, finding babysitters and doing other things around the house. Picking up the slack for my husband was not easy as some of the things he took care of were difficult for me to do. I had no problem with taking the garbage out, but when it came time to keep an eye on the kids, I wished that I could split into two people. Our oldest son was good with his siblings, so it made it easier when he would be able to watch them while I made dinner. My husband's parents, my mom and even my sisters would occasionally come by with food, or stay for several hours just so I could take a quick break, which usually resulted in me napping.

When I woke my husband up from his evening nap with a kiss on his forehead, he smiled weakly at the sight of all five of us. I wasn't sure what was going on in his mind these days since we were losing him rapidly from what the doctor had told me over the phone. It had only been about a week since I last saw him, but I could tell that he was growing thin. His cheek bones were even more prominent now and when I held onto his hand I couldn't feel any sign of him squeezing back. Our oldest son and daughter stood together while our youngest son stood by me as I held the last of the four in my arms. Since I had brought them there after dinner, I wasn't surprised that she had passed out shortly after entering the room.

My husband barely had his eyes open the entire time he was awake, but he seemed to know we were all there. His eyes slowly panned the room once and then for the remaining time he seemed to stare at the whiteboard on the wall. He looked at me briefly, but it was as if he didn't want to make eye contact for fear that he would infect me with what he had. I held his hand the entire time we were there until my mom came up with his parents. They didn't want to overwhelm him all at once, so they split up the visitors into two groups.

Walking out of the room, I felt like I was leaving my husband to die. My kids were quiet and didn't say anything until I was tucking them in for the night. They asked me if daddy would die and I couldn't answer them. I told them I don't know, but told them to pray for him. After good night kisses and telling them I love them, I retreated to my room.

Now we come to this very moment where I am writing for the very last time. I can't do it anymore. I can't write about our horrible situation anymore and what it's doing to all of us. It's becoming too personal and painful to tell everyone about. I want my immediate family to know and that's it. When it comes time for his funeral, my pain will be written all over my face. My face will become the page, which one is to read from.

I can't help but cry uncontrollably now. He probably doesn't have much longer, and since the kids saw him one last time, I'm not so sure I'll go again either. His condition is rapidly declining and I can't bear to watch him in the final days. I want to remember him as the great, happy, loving, caring man that I married fourteen years ago. I don't wish to remember him as I saw him earlier tonight. That image needs to be wiped from my mind and replaced with all the photos I have in the album next to my bed. I dug it out from the closet the other day, but never opened it.

They say that those people who care for others the most will never ask for help when they need it themselves. I think they're right. When I was in the hospital, I never asked for him to be there, he always came of his own free will and love for me. He cared for me even when I tried to push him away. I know I'm a caring person, but his ability to love another is so much more resilient than mine. I give everything that I have because I feel obligated and then never want anything in return to keep the flow continuous; I setup a roadblock and allow myself to be drained.

It should be me in that hospital bed again, not him. Sacrifice... I can't though. I can't do anything now. I can't heal him like he once healed me by showing me his infinite love. I've failed him as a wife. I hope I don't fail my children as well...