Wait For Me To Come Home

~*~

My home is empty again.

Wait, I should really amend that: Our home. I have to train myself to use those words now that I am no longer the only one living here. Our home, where we live together and share what there is left of our lives with one another. It would sound so sweet to say it, except that right now, our home is only home to me. Once again, I can feel the lack of voices settle like dust through the rooms, hear the house breathe and settle without footsteps to cover it up and make the place seem alive. Calling it "our home" is just a reminder right now that he's away, and I'm alone again.

It was only for a few days, he told me. Only for observation while they switch him over to some new pills. Treating him is always like throwing darts at a board, seeing what sticks, how close they are to some invisible bullseye. And they know that, if they do it wrong, they could make him worse, make him sicker. So they have to watch him closely as they switch his medications around to make sure that things don't go terribly wrong.

I want to be there with him right now. I want to be at his side in the hospital with my hoof over his hand and my head resting on his shoulder. Almost as if, even though he's in a hospital bed, he can still comfort me and take care of me. It's a little selfish, but right now I feel so alone and so afraid of every little thought in my head. When I get like that, he's the one I turn to. My Anon. He lets me bury my head against his chest or shoulder and once more fall into that belief we lose somewhere in childhood: That if we cover our own eyes, no one can see us. Like making ourselves blind also makes us invisible.

Without that warm embrace to fall into, all I have is the fear. And I feel so exposed to it.

I close my eyes right now, to pretend that I can hide from my own house and its emptiness. I'm just sitting here in my living room with my eyes shut, and it feels foolish and pretty much useless. I should make myself a late lunch, I should check to be sure I've taken my own pills. Instead I'm sitting here in self-inflicted darkness, wishing it could just be Friday already so I could go collect him from the doctors and come back here. Then we could eat, talk, fuck, and sleep as if nothing at all could happen to us. In those moments at least, we're invincible and we forget, just for an instant, that we're sick.

But in reality, I know we're not invincible, neither of us. And when I offered to come to the hospital to stay with him, he gently but firmly told me no.

"Berry, if you come with me, you'll worry the whole time," he'd said.

I'd just tried to smile, but I think I only managed a frown instead.

"But I'm good at worrying. A real pro!" I'd said, trying to keep the mood light and stop him from telling me no again.

"I still wish you would try not to," he'd said. "I don't want you losing sleep, trying to get a few hours of rest in a waiting room chair, and making yourself sick just worrying about me. That doesn't help either of us."

He'd been right. That didn't mean I had to like it, though.

"I want to be there for you," I'd almost begged. "I want to keep you safe and happy and... and..."

..and I couldn't. I'd told the tears to stay away, but they didn't. I hate crying so easily, but sometimes, like at that moment, it just happens so fast that I don't have time to take precautions against it. He'd hugged me close, probably seeing I was on the verge of tears, and we'd just stood in my living room... our living room. Together, in quiet, with one still moment lingering before I knew he'd have to speak again.

"Then do that from here," he'd told me. "I'll be fine. I always am. Just keep the house for me, take care of the basics for a few days, and then I'll come back to a happy, clean, welcoming home."

"I'm not promising clean."

"I figured, but I still thought I'd ask," I'd felt the rumble of his laugh through his chest. "Just wait for me here. I'll come home, and everything will be just like it was. Maybe even better, depending on how this goes. I love you, and I don't need you at my side to know that. Okay?"

It wasn't okay. But I'd said it was. It was the only thing I knew I could really do.

When it comes down to our various health issues, I know that both of us get final say in our own medical care. I get to be the one to say no to going to the hospital when I start feeling woozy. He's the one who tells me I don't have to make him soup when he gets a cold, or that we don't need to make an appointment just for a sneeze. It lets us have some semblance of autonomy when it comes to our sicknesses, which we both need, I know. Nothing makes you feel more helpless than being controlled not only by sickness, but by those unwilling to let you handle the sickness in your own way. Even though we both know that, I think we'd also both be quite content to take lead and play the champion against each others' illnesses, if given the chance. Put a sword in my hooves, and I'd become the most valiant damn germ fighter you've ever seen.

Right now, though, while I'm alone in this big stupid house, pretending to hide from my own feelings, I don't feel like much of a champion. I don't feel strong, or brave, or like a good girlfriend, waiting patiently for her man to come back from battle. He may not be in a war against soldiers, but I know that every trip to the hospital is a battle for him in its own right. But I'm not the dutiful little woman, waiting and peering out the window, touching the glass and sighing.

...okay, so I did that once. It wasn't nearly as romantic as trashy books make it sound.

What I do feel, is an overwhelming sense of helplessness. There's a question that I ask myself, whether I like it or not, whenever he's away for more than a day. It's a part of my mind that gets louder and louder, even if I try to drown it out with daily tasks, music, sleep, food, until it's practically screaming at me. And it's just one, little, simple question:

What if he doesn't come back?

I know it's not logical. He's coming back, of course he is. He has to come back. He left all his stuff here, his toothbrush is here, again. He always forgets it when he goes away. There's a book he's been reading with me when I'm sick, and he hasn't finished it yet, the bookmark is still only halfway through. He wouldn't leave a book unfinished, he always reads them to the end once he begins them. So he has to come back for it, he wouldn't just leave all his stuff here. He wouldn't just leave me here. Not my Anon. He wouldn't let me stay here alone. Forever.

But whatever logical or silly thought that comes to mind, it's drowned out by the question. What if he doesn't come home? And from there I am forced to ask why. Why wouldn't he come home? With that new question, it gives the voice of doubt all the power it needs, and we're off to the races. My imagination runs wild.

What if, while he's there, he sees a cute little filly who wants to come say hi. And what if she has some serious respiratory virus, that she passes to him without a second thought? What if his immune system is further weakened by the new medicine he has, and that cold is enough to give him pneumonia? His lungs will fill with fluid over night, and by the time he wakes up, he'll barely be able to breath, and wont be able to call his doctors for help! He'll die there, in pain, feeling like he's suffocating. Then I'll get that call, the call I always dread getting, the one saying that I need to come down to the hospital, fill out some paper work, call a mortuary, close his eyes and kiss his now cold and waxy cheek. And accept that he's gone. And I'm alone.

What if he has an allergic reaction to that new medicine they're trying? What if it causes his throat to swell, or gives him an ulcer? What if they can't save him in time, and he dies, convulsing, clutching at his stomach or neck? I'll stand in that hospital room, looking down at the pinkish foam on his lips, seeing the blue on his fingernails where his body was starved for oxygen. And I'll have the choice to either call a lawyer to try to take a swing back at the ponies who took him from me with their experiments... or let it go. Because either way I'll have to accept that he's gone. And I'm alone.

What if it's sudden? What if he just has a heart attack, or his kidneys shut down, or his liver goes after him, just like mine does to me? What if the doctors try and try, but they realize there's nothing they can do, so they call me in? To come as fast as I can, because there isn't much time. In one case, I might get there, just in time to stand at his bedside, smoothing the hair off his brow and trying not to cry over his sleeping form. Who knows if he'd ever regain consciousness? He might never tell me goodbye. He might just slip silently away while I stand there, weeping, begging for him not to go. Or if he was conscious, I would listen intently to his every word, unsure which would end up being the last. I'll tell him I love him, over and over, as many times as our last moments would allow. And then he'll breathe a final, rattling breath, and his body will go still, stiller than any living thing can be. And he'll be gone. And I'm alone.

I might not even get there in time. He could die asking where I am, if I'm on my way. He could call out for me, and I wouldn't be there. He'll die alone. And then I'm alone.

What if...

It goes on and on and on. Forever. As long as he's at the hospital, out of my sight, the scenarios roll out in gaudy displays of color and emotion. I start to feel them as they do, and my throat actually does tense up and my eyes actually do start to feel wet. I've gagged, and almost thrown up. For a moment or two, it's actually like he's already dead and I'm feeling exactly what it will be like.

As the different morbid thoughts prowl through my mind right now, I can feel my legs tense, and the muscles in my neck go taught. It makes me feel almost nauseated to think about it and feel it.

"It's not real," I say out loud. "He's fine. He's alive and fine and all of this is just in your head."

Are you sure? Are you sure he's not dead right now?

"Stop it," I mutter. "He's. Fine."

But are you sure? Are you really, really sure? Couldn't it be that the doctors are about to call, to let you know he's passed, and in just a moment that phone will ring and all your worst fears will be realized?

In spite of myself, I open my eyes and look to the phone next to the sofa, willing it not to ring. Thankfully, it doesn't. I breathe out a slow sigh of relief that I didn't realize I was holding in, and taste that coppery flavor that indicates blood. I touch my lower lip, and find that I've bitten it so hard that it's started to bleed. I swear at myself and that treacherous voice inside my head, trying to convince me of such horrible and hurtful things. It's fine. He's fine, just like I said he would be. I'm sure of it.

...but not really.

I give a groaning sigh and allow myself to collapse back onto the couch. What am I doing? Why am I torturing myself like this? I should get up, go do something, make food, and just carry on with my life as if nothing is wrong. Because nothing's wrong. Nothing at all.

Then why does it feel like I'm bleeding inside, not just from my lip? Why does my chest hurt like my heart is already broken? Am I really so weak that a few days can break me, that waiting just another twenty four hours is making me so crazy?

Almost instantly, I realize that the answer is yes. Pathetically, but at least openly, yes. The straightforward words "I miss him" aren't enough for this feeling, this isn't just loneliness. This is fear, dread, and self-inflicted emotional abuse, all stemming from this fucking isolation. I am alone, but I can't get the other voice to stop talking, so I guess I'm never really by myself. It's enough to feel like I'm being haunted.

My now open eyes slide from the phone which is still, thank Celestia, not ringing, to a small framed picture on a side table. In it, We're standing next to each other at the zoo, his arm around my shoulders, holding me against his hip as I stand upright. It's awkward for me to stand that way, braced on only my back hooves, but it puts me at that perfect height to rest against his chest... or to bite him a little, if the unexpected mood so strikes me. Seeing him there is enough to strike a resonating note of lacking in my body. He's not here, I can't touch him, can't hold him. The smile in the picture is so captured and still, like I'm looking at a painting, and he might have never existed outside this image. It should remind me that he's real, this is real. But instead it makes the distance seem more intense. I pick up the photo and shake it, feeling irrationally angry for an instant.

"Damn it, why aren't you here?" I demand of the thing. "Why did you have to go to the hospital, why did you have to be sick like me? Why couldn't we have been... have been..."

'Normal' is the word that goes here, but I don't say it. I've never been normal. He's never been normal. Our relationship has always been completely bizarre by any other standards. But that makes us the couple we are, and I love what we are, even if it's pretty weird. So no... I don't ask the photo why we can't be normal. If we were, we probably never would have found each other in the first place.

"I miss you," I tell the photo as I once more close my eyes. I press the frame to my chest. "I just miss your stupid, beautiful face so, so much. Why can't you just be here? Why can't I just be there?"

Because you're sick. Because I have to stay here.

...why do I have to stay here again?

The absurdity of the whole thing hits me all of a sudden, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I'm acting like I'm in prison right now, like we're separated by an actual force rather than a mile or two of distance. I said I'd wait but... I didn't exactly make a promise. And being here right now? Feels... so wrong. It feel unnatural to not be at his side. Every part of my body is screaming at me, all in open agreement, that I should be with him right now, rather than sitting here at home. So why am I? Is there a good enough reason for me to stay put? Because I'll worry? Because he said he didn't want me to worry?

So I'll worry. To hell with it. I'm worried anyway, so I already fucked that up. It's not worth me staying here alone, pretending that following this specific wish of his does either of us any good. It doesn't do me any good, and I doubt he's feeling fine and dandy alone in a hospital. I never do. He wants me here for my sake. I'd say I know my sake better than he does. And he doesn't deserve to go through this alone, just to protect me, anyway. He deserves comfort and happiness too, and him not having it because he wants me not to worry is... is... stupid. I won't call him that to his face of course, at least not because of this, but it is.

Although, maybe I don't want to be at his side and see him just to comfort him and make sure he doesn't feel alone. Maybe I want to be there so I feel sane, so I can be sure I'm not alone, for myself. Selfish though it may be, he's always made me feel more sane and whole. I guess I need him. That's dangerous, considering how easy it is for me to lose him, but it feels good to admit it, too. I need him. I need him in my life, I need to know he's okay, and I need to be with him right now, this instant. I'm not entirely sure that's even healthy, but he wanted me to worry less, right? Well, I'm worrying more just staying here at home anyway. If I'm allowed, I'd rather be with him, even if he just sleeps in a hospital bed the whole time.

We get to make our own medical decisions right? Well, this is a matter of my suffering mental health now, I've decided. And I believe the best treatment is a trip to the hospital.

I stand up off the couch with a start. I can't just sit around here wondering anymore. He might be a little mad at me for not staying here to wait for him, like he asked me to, but so be it. Besides, this house wasn't going to get clean before he got here anyway. Maybe I can make it up to him, do something for him, anything to cheer him up. Maybe...

As the idea strikes me, I feel my cheeks grow warm as they flex into a smile. It's something I haven't done in days, and I don't feel used to it anymore. But this idea is so simple so delicious, so genuinely sweet that he's likely to love it. And also tell me it's mushy and sentimental and that I'm a silly old softy. He'll tease me, but that's only to hide that he'd genuinely touched. Besides, I know from experience, he'd do something similar.

I move to the kitchen, nearly grinning now, and begin collecting all the things I'll need. Yes, that one is his favorite. Maybe this too, just in case. Will the nurses let me take this in? My hooves are moving so fast that I'm barely thinking about what I'm doing or if this is a good idea after all. I'm not letting myself think about that right now. All I know is that the faster I get this done, the faster I'll be at his side. There's no time to waste.

Still keeping away thoughts of doubt, I turn from the kitchen towards the front door, and I'm almost to it when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I freeze and grimace at my own reflection. There are lines from tears, my hair is a mess, I look half starved, and my fur is mussed up from my preparation efforts.

"Okay," I tell myself. "I can waste a little time on looking nicer."

My reflection smiles back at me as I can't help but grin.

"After all, I want to look nice for our date."

~*~