It feels simultaneously like a lifetime and like a blink since I woke up to the sound of my wife writhing in pain, setting off the worst three days of the nearly fifteen thousand I’ve experienced so far. Seven days ago, at this exact moment, I was sitting in the ER with Anne, wondering what the hell was going on with her. Little did we know that she was about to get a misdiagnosis that would cost her an organ.

I keep catching myself holding my breath, worrying about her, even though I don’t need to worry like I did. Anne is recovering. She’s able to walk — albeit very slowly — with me when I take one of our dogs around the block. She’s still tired a lot of the time, and we’re going to see if the OB/GYN who did her surgery can help us get to the bottom of that. Maybe it’s just post-surgical fatigue (which is my Thompson Twins cover band) or maybe it’s something more, but it’s one of the things that makes me worry a little bit.

But we’re getting back to something like boring and normal, and I’ve never been as content to be bored as I am right now.

I’ve been recording an audiobook during the days this week, so I also feel fatigued, but it’s the kind of fatigue that feels earned, rather than imposed. It’s a lot of different characters, and it’s a lot of words, but it’s really fun, escapist fiction. I’m enjoying the process more than I thought I’d be able to, and I am on a pace to finish Monday. I can’t say anything else about it, but you’re welcome to speculate, if that’s amusing for you.

I slept for fourteen dreamless hours. When I woke up, Anne was in the living room with our dogs. They were all happy to see me when I staggered out of our bedroom.

We had as close to a normal day as we could expect, a nice and boring day where nothing happened, and we didn’t have to go to the emergency room for any reason. I know we only had to go twice, but it feels like it was so much more than that.

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I realize that I’ve been going in circle for an hour, hoping that I’ll bump into something that unlocks a solution to Anne’s suffering. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator. Maybe there’s something on the patio. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch. Maybe if I walk into our bedroom and sit next to her on the bed. Maybe if I hold her hand. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator.

She can’t keep down any food, and barely any liquids. I give her some pain meds and she throws them up almost immediately. Maybe if I hold her hand.

“I’m going to try to just go to sleep,” she says. “You don’t need to stay here.”

I stay there anyway, until she appears to be sleeping. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand.

I gently get off our bed and step over both of our dogs, who haven’t moved from Anne’s side of the bed since she got into it. They both look at me, and maybe I’m projecting, but I feel like there is concern in their eyes. “I’m worried, too,” I whisper. I walk through the living room. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch.

I try to watch TV, but I can’t pay attention. I try to look at the Internet, but I can’t pay attention. I try to read a book but I can’t pay attention. I look into our bedroom. Anne is on her side, and I stand in the doorway, making sure that I can see her breathe. Because that’s a thing I worry about when I’m not worrying about everything else. I walk out to the game room and drive my car around Los Santos, because I don’t have to pay much attention, and it’s a way to pass the time.

It’s just after midnight when Anne texts me: Water.

“Oh, good,” I think, “she can keep water down.” I set the controller down and walk back into the house.

I can hear her wailing, nearly to the point of screaming, as soon as I open the door. My stomach drops out of my body.

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