i asked for directions to the ICU unit and was directed to the 4th floor. i thought: how imminent for the ICU to be on this floor. then i walked past the wooden doors and found myself for the first time in such a unit – seeing small groups of families in the other wards as i walked past and feeling absolutely sick in the gut – and eventually i find your bed near the end. you are sleeping with an oxygen mask and i have never seen you with one before. i thought i had gotten used to seeing you like this but i was wrong. i will never get used to seeing a catheter, the army of tubes or even feeling the coldness in the air that i only experience in hospitals. and then all of the things you have said to me or about me fade away into a distant memory. does it matter. your skin is slightly wrinkled and is soft to touch. i stroke your hair – realizing how much it has grown since then – and you say don’t because it’s dirty. it doesn’t matter. then you fidget around and i feel that my presence is stealing away your rest time. this is when i feel like a grown up and that you are a child.
i am here. and i am so glad i came.