morning calm

I continue to update, but in truth, there is not a lot to write. We are in a space of relative stability with some sense of calm. James is doing as well as possible given the circumstances. We recognize the gravity of the situation: James is being kept alive by machines. Everything can change in a second. We can never truly allow ourselves to rest or relax.

Nevertheless, I have moments of incredible gratitude. James is still here. He can laugh with me. He can communicate. He endures with motivation and strength. We have reasons for hope.

Nights remain very difficult for James with intense fears of death. He is afraid to close his eyes and never open them again. All the reassurance in the world does not seem to help. These are valid fears.

I arrive early in the morning to provide some comfort for both of us. I am always on the verge of tears in the mornings. I have an intense need to be with James (with the knowledge of his long and difficult nights, and my own longings). I look upon him, and feel an immediate reprieve from my own sense of panic. James curls up with his blanket, and allows himself to finally rest with some ease. I hold his hand in his sleep, or knit silently beside his bed.

We are together again in gratitude for one another. It seems that nearness is often enough to calm our beings. This must be part of the definition of love.