The Window's Open

The window is open tonight. I can feel the cool evening breeze gently wafting through the room, and hear the cars passing by. The owls are out, and the coyote pups are howling. My phone is buzzing with tweets from time to time, and the whir of the overhead fan is calming. Intoxicating ribbons of the aroma of lavender are making their way through the room, creating a serene atmosphere.

The dog has finally found her spot for the night, and has settled in under the cream colored matelasse quilt covering the bed. I can feel her warmth next to my leg, and the movement of her chest with every breath she takes.

I hear the deep and even breathing of my husband. I can see his outline in the dark, as the light from the computer screen illuminates parts of his body. His left leg is rhythmically rocking back and forth, moving the bed ever so slightly with each motion. He only does that when he's in pain. For awhile there will be no escape from it, even in slumber.

I know there's not much I can do, only listen and gather what he needs. There's no talking this man into anything. He will do what he wants to do, as he wants to do it.

But at night he pays the price. He saw a physical therapist today. It was a three and a half hour appointment. He called me after, and sounded better than I have heard him in weeks, his voice upbeat and encouraging, his tone was calm and refreshed.

I had errands to complete and, after a few hours, I returned home. He was sitting in a lawn chair, covered by a red beach towel, in the garage. There was a pillow behind his back, and he was rocking. That was not a good sign.

He had a massage appointment that he couldn't make it through, he panicked. Then on his way home, he got stuck in traffic, and panicked once more. He pulled to the side of the road, put on his flashers, put the windows down. He closed his eyes and just was. He breathed deeply and attempted to put his mind at rest before he continued his journey home.

As I sat with him, his day spilled out, and down his chiseled face, in tears of fear and discouragement. All I could do was to sit, rub his hand, and listen as he painfully told his story.

I thought of the appointment I had with my psychiatrist today. He told me I looked and seemed "positive." I told him I was numb. You do what you have to do to get through the war. When the war is over, the emotion can run free.

Jeff's war is now, as he's healing. When he gets back to problem solving and reading blue prints, he will be emotionally free, his focus re directed. That is when I'm afraid I will fall. Now I am busy with all of the different doctors appointments, keeping him taken care of, and all the things that come with the duties of a caretaker.

Yes, I'm afraid my fall will come when he is once more whole. 

You can read more of Jeff and his story here: Help Rebuild Jeff One Nail At A Time.

Until next time, kisses,