Although the weight of anxiety hung from his shoulders like a logging chain, he still paced from one elevator opening to the next as if the angst alone would cause one of the doors to open. We were on the third floor of the hospital, the Surgical Intensive Care Unit.
As the door finally parted and we entered together, I asked, “You have family here?”
With a nod, “My wife.”
“What is it?”
“Colitis. Third surgery. Not looking real good. Might have to take a lot of her intestine this time.”
“Kids?”
“One boy. Fourteen. Been real hard on him.”
“Hmmm…”
“Not sure what I’m going to do. I love my wife more than myself, I tell ya. Don’t know what I’m gonna do if I lose her. I don’t think I can go on.
By this time we were in the parking lot, heading to our cars to take care of things at home.
“Anything I can do?”
No, man. I don’t know, pray? Hey, just letting me talk helps. I keep all this bottled up and I don’t know what to do. Talkin’ ‘bout it helps. Thanks, man.”
We waved as he pulled out ahead of me into the traffic. Everyone seems to be carrying their own chain. Pulling some pain in their own world of hurt.
Charles