And now I'm sitting in a motel in Lincoln, Nebraska waiting for the roads to clear a bit so I can visit my husband in a rehabilitation hospital where he's recovering from a stroke. A stroke. What a stupid name for it. Usually a stroke is a good thing -- something you want -- "a stroke of luck"; "a stroke of genius", even just a caress, but this is nothing good. It's taken my best friend away from me, stolen time from us both, thrown us in the path of truck.
And it's brought out some nasty traits in me -- like jealousy, like anger, like despair. I see couples walking through the grocery store gathering their weekly shopping like Dave and I used to do and I want to chuck one of those huge cans of institutional beans at them. I was just down in the complimentary breakfast area watching couples drinking coffee and planning to continue their trip, and I want to throw the pre-packaged honey buns around.
It's not just that I like being a couple. I like being a couple with Dave.
And even though he continues to get better every day -- for which I am very grateful -- I still miss him. I miss him so much my head feels like a sponge. I miss him at home in his chair drinking coffee; I miss him sitting at his desk with his stocking hat on because his head is cold; I miss him walking around checking the fruit trees for deer damage. One of my favorite sights has always been that of Dave walking toward me from wherever he's been. I miss that.
