Immediately after I hit "publish" to post yesterday, I went to the couch and told Erik I didn't feel well. I'd hoped it was Thanksgiving overindulgence, feared it was the stomach bug that had hit Erik and Safa early in the week. Quickly I realized it was the later. I'm very weak right now, hunched over typing these words, but I'll be damned if I fail NaBloPoMo so close to finishing.
Last night Erik helped me to bed. Time over the past 18 hours has run together in the way it will when one is so ill they are confined to bed and labored walks to the bathroom. I lay in bed, nauseous, shaking, sweating. He stayed with me. He would leave and come back intermittently to check on me at first. As I got worse, he stayed. He read to me while I shook uncontrollably. He played the guitar for me, a sweet, gentle song, love in the chords. And when things got really bad he made a bed for me on the bathroom floor, where I stayed until 3:00 AM.
This afternoon he rented a girl-movie for me to watch in bed. Carried me back to bed. Offered anything he could, wanting to provide some small comfort. Worry and love all over his face.
I am exhausted now. Weak, ready for bed again after having now been awake for an hour. I hear the girls in the living room. Every once in a while I hear Erik's voice over theirs, low and loving, this voice I have found comfort in for 15 years.
And I am thankful beyond measure for the man it belongs to.
The Artist’s Journey, #11
18 hours ago