To the moon and back.
It's how much I love him. Probably even more. Yoda tells me that somebody she loves very much said this to her on Friday, so when I see this in the gift shop, I take a picture for her.
The love around us is so big. Then why do I feel so incredibly small and helpless?
Leaving him is always the worst.
It's not that I can administer IV's, or call in an order for new meds, or even get a doctor into his room. I am basically useless except for kissing his head, and rubbing his feet, and reminding him to wear his squeezy socks so he won't get clots, and ordering a little more food than he thinks he'll eat just in case we get lucky.
Today is extra difficult. He tells me to go home. Our kids need me too. I know he is right, but, still it seems wrong.
Will he fall asleep without his oxygen tube in?
Is his head just half a degree warmer than when I kissed it earlier?
Will he actually finish that protein shake?
Against my better judgement, we decide that I should go home to check on our kids. I'll bring them back in the morning for a visit. He tells me to bring a game. I smile because I don't know who he thinks he's kidding - he can't even sit up high enough to read a book, how he thinks he'll participate in charades, or Pictionary or even poker is beyond me.
There are always quiet tears when I leave - sometimes him - always me. Today is no different. But when I kiss his head it is warm. He tells me it's only because they lowered his body temperature intentionally yesterday - 95 degrees - he just seems warmer. So I drive home, but instantly wish I hadn't.
I'm home for two hours when I get the call. A rising fever, increased pain. I'm worried about infection. Rico is worried about the same thing he's worried about for 8 months - the thing that started it all - "a tumor fever" they called it. He is in good hands tonight - but I wish he were in mine.
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems - even when you have a super surgeon.