My reality.

Sitting in a hospital room, the television playing softly. Dad fades in and out of sleep. He wakes only to tell me he “had to wait a hell of a long time” for pain medication. When I ask what they gave him, his answer is incoherent, and then he quickly falls back to sleep.

There is a void in the bed where his left leg should be.

I feel deeply sad, but for all the wrong reasons. I miss my husband and son. I miss my bed, my cat. I miss the normalcy of it all. I see new mothers downstairs, waiting with their red wrinkled babies, to go home for the first time and it pulls at me. It reminds me how spread thin I feel, and it scares me because I can’t know when that feeling will cease.

There is a void in my heart where my life should be.

“We have a special bond,” he has told me. “I held you, wet from your mother’s womb,” he has said, punctuating his proclamation with a finger shaking in the air.

And I sit here, watching him sleep, in wonder at how bound in emptiness two people could possibly be.

Our reality.