It's Three in the Morning

Quiet.  It’s 3a.m. and quiet here.  The roar of the ventilation system battles with the hum of the fan on my laptop, but such “white noise” is somehow soothing.  The rhythm of Tim’s breathing is reassuring and hypnotic.  There are no voices in the hall, no clinking of instruments.  There is no traffic outside, no sirens, no dogs barking.  Time is suspended in relative silence.

I sit in an uncomfortable recliner close to the hospital bed so my feet rest on the edge of the mattress.  I am connected to him - the atoms of my feet mingling with the atoms of the mattress and sheet to touch the atoms of his body.  His energy flows back into me along the same route.  I breathe deeply.

Once again I am reminded of the fragility of our life.  An instant can change everything.   A routine screening can morph into urgent, major surgery.  Uncertainty can overwhelm normalcy.  The daily routine of work and home becomes the routine of vital signs, meal trays, and pain management. Roles can be frightfully altered. Reality used to be the mundane and comfortable - driving, working, being, sleeping.  Reality is now punctuated by shift changes, rounds, and blood tests.  “Real life” feels interrupted.

In the quiet, the Spirit swirls and dips and caresses, coaxing healing into traumatized tissues and psyches.  The compassion that washes over us from caregivers springs from the Spirit’s nudging and luring.  The Spirit centers me in the moment.  This is the most important time - right now.  Anxiety about yet unknown test results threatens to distract, but the Spirit is stronger and anchors me in place.

It’s quiet here.  Soon, a tech will come to draw blood.  The quiet will be broken as activity again increases.  But the Spirit will remain, holding Tim dearly in Her loving arms.  He is safe.