In the hospital I am strong. I flex healthy muscles as I adjust pillows and blankets, fetch items out of reach of the bed and hold his hand when the pain peaks above a 7. I slow my pace to meet his on our short walks down the hall as I encourage him to go just a little further. My lungs fill and empty easily as his right one struggles. I know that for once I am not the vulnerable one and not just because I lack an assless hospital gown. I feel the blood pumping through a body that is whole and unbroken. I am strong enough to help him heal. It is just him and me and I am strong enough to lean on. I am strong enough to make him better.
The strength fades with the chill of the hospital and melts out through my feet onto the hot concrete as I walk to my car. By the time I am shut into my father's Honda I am weak. I am alone.
I try to think of someone to call. I don't know what I want to say exactly. My nail polish is chipped and I can't remember if it's been three or four days since I showered. I wish my Mom wasn't out of town. Even though Kyle is going to be ok this is hard and scary and more grown up than I'm ready for. I crave the release of talking to someone who understands that a problem is not always meant to be solved and for the first time in my life I am short on girlfriends. A few I have lost to distance, the permanence of which remains to be seen. Others, casualties to the personality evolutions that come with growing up. And then there are the ones I haven't lost at all. They text me casually to keep in touch and I am angry. I have forgiven them before for forgetting me, abandoning our friendship in busy periods and then returning to it later like a hobby. I have forgiven them before because to me relationships are not a part-time job. I put everything I have into them and months or even years later I am still nursing the pains of the ones that broke. I forgive and forget or I get angry and get out. I'm not sure which one makes me weaker.
