Walking into the darkened room full of dim flickering monitors connecting her from the bed while illuminating her vitals in a low buzzing hum. She slept soundly, almost too peacefully. Resting my hand on her, she softly woke and mumbled my name. All I did – all I could do was sit next to her, hug her, and maybe tell her a little story every now and then. We must’ve been there like this for a couple of hours at least, I’m thinking.
Elizabeth hasn’t felt well lately. She was admitted to the hospital two nights ago.
Part of me tries to prepare for the upcoming new addition to the family (the baby). But the other part of me is not prepared to lose someone — I don’t think things are that extreme, but of course, its difficult not letting my mind wander down that path.
Elizabeth, she and I, we don’t always get along like milk and cereal. We’re more like grits and oatmeal – not the perfect match, but on a cold wintery day, along with a mug full of hot chocolate, can feel just like heaven. Alike belonging together, but sometimes, we just feel otherwise. But the lonely dark, half hour drive back from the hospital can be tear filled afraid of losing my friend. Afraid of missing her too much. When good things happen, I turn to laugh with her. When bad things happen, I turn to be comforted by her. So much of me is made from her — I wouldn’t know what to do if…