You are home. But you are not whole. I can see the road outstretched before us, like one of those photos of a seemingly random road in a desert that seems a never ending length. It travels over small hills. It has cracked and broken concrete. In places the broken parts reach toward the sky threatening to take out the tire of an unaware driver, or worse. The sun above is brutal, burning, with no cloud in sight to offer relief to the burning pavement or its travelers. The mountains in the distance are orange, without green life on them. The road passes between them, ending unknown.
The last week has certainly been something no one would want to experience. We are luckier than most, and that is not lost on me. I am so very grateful for God and the way He provides for us - in every aspect. The hope He gives even when we feel lost on that never ending desert road.
I will never forget those 27 hours in the ER with you. I shut my eyes to sleep, even now, and am still there. I smell the alcohol from cleaning your arm where they placed the IV. The beep of your pulse on the machines. The cold air all around. I am there. Still holding your hand, reminding you "I am here" and reminding you to not give up or give in to the pain.
Watching the nurse remind you to breathe to get your heart rate from a dangerous low, over and over, is an experience I hope to never have again. It is terror unleashed, wreaking havoc on my heart. Each second dragging on - time still, while the world whirled outside. Hot tears streaming down my face as I held my breath waiting for yours to come back.
Your strength and ability to persevere has always amazed and inspired me. You've been to war and back many times, in positions of extreme stress and still are more humble than anyone I have ever known. You push me to be better and braver every single day and continue despite the hardship I am facing. Now it is my turn to inspire that in you. To help hold you up the way you've helped hold me up through the 12 plus years we've been together. Wanting to help be your rock was the hardest part about leaving you. No visitors in the hospital is devastating to the patient, and I have no doubt it has caused some to give up. I am so thankful you did not.
As you slept soundly next to me last night, I could not stop the happiness that filled me. I must have looked like a fool to some with this huge smile on my face in the dark staring at you sleeping - creepy, really. It is just so good to have you home. To feel you breathing steadily next to me again. Just feeling you there restored a bit of my hope and heart.
I cannot place the emotion I feel seeing you look so well but knowing you are not. There are just too many feelings to name. Other than a little color difference in your skin, you look great, healthy. Tired, but healthy. That is what makes it so devastating to realize that part of you is still very much missing.
I see glimpses of you starting to come back to me. Sometimes its the way your warm green eyes glance into mine, or the way your eyebrows soften when I walk into the room, as your eyes slowly lift to look in my direction. How the tension in your forehead releases a tiny bit at the touch of my hand on yours. Or the tilt in your head when I whisper to you. These are the signs I wait for in the moments when you seem to be lost in there somewhere, lost in the pain or the drugs to help the pain.
I long for the moment when your hug is as strong as it used to be. How you would squeeze lovingly tight and let your warmth embrace and protect me from whatever it was I needed protecting from.
I long for the moment when you are more alert and know I am in the room with you all the time, instead of only a couple of hours a day. When I can see that you know I am still here. When you are my Ryan again.
I long for the moment when your smile returns to its full beauty and you laugh without a care in the world. I miss the smile you give me when I do something ridiculous in frustration and you are just watching me, waiting for me to let it go or figure it out or finally ask for help. I have always been terrible at asking for help.
I long for the moment when the pain ceases to steal you away from me and the boys. They miss you. Terribly.
I long for the moment when the green and yellow bruises fade from existence, only to be remembered as a distant memory of the past. "That one time" you were sick and how far we have come from that place.
I long for the moment when you are healthy again. No pain, no hurt.
I long for the moment when we can adventure and explore the world again together. We are good at that. We were so good at that.
I long for the moment things will be normal again. I know you do, too.
Even if your struggle isn't over, your pain isn't gone, and the road ahead seems long. At least we are together and together we will keep going, one foot in front of the other.
Whatever hills we may need to climb, or broken concrete obstacles we must navigate, I will walk this road with you until we find the smoother pavement.