My parents had moved their motorhome up to the hospital for anyone that needed a break from the four walls of the gloomy hospital room. I didn’t think that I would end up sleeping in it as much as I actually did. I thought maybe a couple of times, but nothing more than twice a week or so. But I was wrong. I lived there. Right in the parking lot of the hospital where Clint was staying.
I woke up every morning at about 7:00, went up to the parent shower in the hospital to clean up, went to the motorhome to dry my hair and put on a little bit of makeup to help the bags under my eyes look a little less intense. After that, I went up to the room, and I was there by about 8:00. He was always still asleep, but I just sat on the side of the bed or sometimes the ground and held his hand until he woke up. I loved those couple of hours. It was so calm and peaceful. No rushing around. Just my peaceful, sleeping Clint. As soon as he woke up, there was what seemed like a line out the door of doctors wanting to come take a look at C. It lasted for hours. Every morning. By about noon, we were both pretty exhausted from repeating every symptom to every doctor and trying to remember everything they were telling us to do. I usually ended up going to the motorhome to cook me a microwavable bowl of easy mac, and having my almost daily mental breakdown. From there, I would try to clean up my act, and act like the strongest, most emotionally stable person I could possibly be, so that C didn’t know that I was absolutely FREAKING OUT inside. I would go back up to the room, and stay there for a few more hours. While I was in the room, I tried to comfort C, get his ice packs right when he needed them, make sure his Pulse Ox stayed on his finger just how tight he liked it, feed him, always keep his laundry and books organized, make sure his Xbox controllers had good batteries, make sure his phone was charged, make sure he had towels to dry off with after the shower, make sure he brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth, change his bed sheets, tell the nurse about every little new symptom that popped up, and what time, make sure he felt good about himself, and even clip his toenails while he was asleep so that it wouldn’t tickle. (haha) I would stay up there until about 11-12pm on a good night, but on the long nights, it ended up being about 1-2am.
We danced through the good days, and cried through the bad ones. And when I say danced, I mean that literally. He would play our song on his phone, ask for my hand, and we would just dance. We always got tangled in the lines from his IV pole, and ended up laughing while we tried to get out! We would take walks to the 4th floor patio just about every night. We would look out there, and wonder what our friends were doing without us. Wonder what stupid drivers we missed the chance to honk at. (haha) Wonder if anyone even noticed that we were gone. We were looking down on a world full of opportunity from the patio with a wrought iron fence holding us back.
When I got back to the motorhome every night, I would lay out my outfit for the next day, write in my journal that I would soon be giving to C, and sit alone, in the darkness and quiet until I eventually fell asleep.
Wait. Backtrack. Did I mention the journal I wrote in? Looks like I did. Ah, yes. The Journal.