A friend has dashed himself upon a rock. Recovery seems likely. Surgeons will have a chance to repair a man who may dance in the night and hold his friends upon his shoulders and press onwards into the bleakness.
I’ve sacrificed time from work, but I’d rather be here supporting my friend. My wife is due to join this hospital crew that has bonded with her far away supporting but not present. I am anxious about her arrival. Something will be broken, urgently forgotten, needful in an angry almost-resentment “how dare you judge me for dropping all my chargers out the door, now go fix it”. And she’ll be sloppy like she always is, hanging in a way that could be beautifully managed but won’t be, so it’s just ugly. And through all that I cannot imagine the things she tells herself; she thinks them, I know she does, when we are most intimate and she reveals to me the self loathing she is capable of, yet cannot or does not do anything about it. She’ll wear that tight fitting red shirt that’s a bit too small. All of this makes me a bad man, according to her.
She’s a good woman with a tornado of porcupines. I have been without her for 3 days and it feels like a vacation, her attention elsewhere and urgently needed to help arrange people and look after our child while I am here on the ground. I love her. And I am anxious about seeing her. I desperately hope for things to be ok but it is kind of a foolish optimism isn’t it?
My friend. Our friend. Her friend. He is hurting. He needs love above anything. He is getting it.