Will I

You fell asleep at 8 tonight. Barely stirring to give our girl a hug before she went to bed. I checked in on you at 9, taking your oxygen level, checking your temperature, and trying to rouse you so I could make sure you didn't need anything. You just slept right through it. I checked on you several times, peeking through the door and seeing you sleep as peacefully as I have for days.
Your breathing seems better. Lungs sound clearer. For a moment when I went to bed I thought maybe this whole thing had passed. Maybe your pneumonia had gotten better. We tried those new meds, maybe that helped. Maybe I'll wake in the morning, having had all three of us gotten great sleep and realize that now is not your time. I fall into a restless sleep thinking of it. Making plans for the weekend, vowing to not keep letting things get put off.
Somehow I don't feel peaceful. Like my thoughts can't quite take hold in my head, regardless of how much I wish they would.
At 230 you call me. I'm going to hate the song Midnight Rider, it's what plays every time you call. I grab my robe and Kate's monitor running down the stairs. I've become quite the acrobat. Jumping over a naked doll, dodging last nights ballerina fashion show clothes tossed on the steps and narrowly missing a lone boot at the bottom of the steps. All things I should have picked up on my way up those stairs to bed, I secretly think I leave them there because I like the challenge. It wakes me up and sharpens my brain, a mini-obstacle course to prepare me for anything I have to do.
I'm surprised you're not gasping for breath like the night before. You're still struggling but it's not like yesterday. The thought that maybe this is passing, creeps into my mind again, taking a little stronger hold. I joke with you about being a sleeping princess. You just look at me through the darkness, the small stream of light pouring in from the kitchen, you tell me something you've never said before. You confess to being closer to death than ever before. Those quick glimpses of things getting better rush out the door, I feel a sting on my cheeks like I've just stepped out into a blizzard.
I tell you it's ok. Telling you that you can rally, that you've come back from the brink before. You tell me what I want to hear but somehow I know you don't believe it. I switch into nurse mode, wife mode is just too hard. I suction you, check your vitals, assure you things are better, get you meds, make you more comfortable.
You tell me to pull up the chair. I can feel wife mode closing in around me. I want to fight against it but know it's the part of me you need most now, so I concede.
We sit in the dark and talk.
Well, I talk. I ramble about the days plans, my thoughts about what happens next, asking you for your thoughts on things. You chime in with your two cents in the places it matters most. It's just the way things are between us. I'm the big strokes, the sweeping thoughts, the muscle. You, you're the quiet calm, the organizer of details, lending your thoughts and considerations when it matters the most.
We talk about Kate, rejoicing in how wonderful she is. I can't see your face real well but I know it lights up, I can feel it. The world can feel it.
You say that you trust me, that you know I'll do a great job of raising her the rest of the way. I tell you how much of you I see in Kate. That quiet, peaceful, funny contentment. The way she will listen to Liberty Valance over and over again, never tiring. She's a dedicated, committed, loving little girl because she's a piece of you.
I'm having a hard time holding on, I feel my brink just at the edge of my soul. You must sense it too so you offer me an escape. Asking me to help you with some sleeping medicine and telling me to go upstairs and get some rest. When I resist telling you I'll stay, you push a little harder letting me know you won't relent.
One last round of checks and I leave you to hopefully sleep.

Back in my bed, what used to be our bed, I'm sitting wondering "Will I?".

I hesitate to share this. Thinking I'll just archive this and never post it like I have with so many other of my ramblings. Knowing I want to share this moment in time with Kate sometime in the future. Knowing I want to be able to go back and remember this moment. But, sharing it with the world wide web, is that the right thing to do? I can feel you telling me to share. Telling me it's what we do. All that time spent in a teaching hospital so others could learn from the hardships. Never editing the important things, always telling people the things they may not want to hear, it's just what we do. So I listen, and I share because I think it's what you want. I'm not the only person walking this path right now. There are others just off to my sides, others I may not see or know, but they're there and they deserve to know they're not alone. Just as I am not alone.

The sun will be up soon and everything will be alright.