"somewhere other than inside the out there." -- part forty two.

if you know his best friend, my god, he is not a man, he is a country. he has glory at his fingertips, just beyond his grasp at all times. he keeps it there for rainy days it seems.

when i was recovering from my abortion, an enormous bouquet appeared on the desk in the living room, and he talked to me like i was still human. that's all i needed. i needed to know that i was still human.

when i led him down those quieted halls at some strange hour of late night early morning, the in between, he held my arm. all i knew was that, thank god, the calvary had finally arrived. he was not my back up, he was the up.

one of the few 'guys' that i have ever met who is not only a gentleman (and not so by default) but who is a man (yes, in all those victorious and true ways that we are led to believe don't exist anymore).

we stood by boy's bed, and we held close to him.

they had told us that he would die this evening.

they had told us that he would Be no more.

he could tell the exhaustion and pain and anger and hurt and disbelief and abstaining hope in my eyes, and after a bit, he said, "let's get you some rest."

and he knew that that was what i needed, i needed to sleep, i needed a night without throwing up every hour, i needed rest. and in the morning, i could be with him again.

we excused ourselves to the adjacent hotel and checked in to a room. and thank god he was there. thank god he tucked me in. because somehow i knew, as long as he was there, i could find my tortured way to sleep. as long as he was there, my boy would not give up.

neither of us slept much that early morning, but i was still and laying down with my eyes closed, and that was close enough.

we got up at about eight and prepared to go back to the icu. there had been no phone calls in the night. no lights had been suddenly switched on. we were eager to know what was happening.

we stepped into the room, and boy was still there, in a coma, eyes fluttering with some faint recognition. he had made it, and they told us that he wouldn't. my hope soared.

"take care of his head, and i can fix his heart," the cardiologist said.

"his lungs will be fine," the team said.

and i stared at the monitor, deciphering each and every green, red, and yellow number on the screen, decoding the enigma of beeps, and i let out a heavy breath.

my boy, he was still fighting that goddamn good fight. he was still there. he was still fighting his own body. but dammit, he was fighting.

i was quiet that day. i hadn't eaten anything since monday, and it was thursday. it was halloween. my own body was rejecting. i was forgetting to eat or sleep or whatever it is that you general physicality tells you is imperative.

his father came in and gave me a small smile, "linds, we need him to breathe, i heard you help him breathe."

he still wasn't breathing over the respirator.

i stood near him, and i held his hand, and i talked to him, those soft things, those things that cannot and will not ever be repeated, not to you, not to any other love i may ever have, not to my own children ... for anywhere or any other time, they would have no heart behind them.

i wallowed and bathed in the fact that perhaps my voice and all those sessions of meditation that i led him through could have somehow been of any sort of use. i held his hand, and his respiratory numbers danced a little two step and returned to normal. all i could do was stand there longer.

these days, they were long and drawn carefully with a thick line. elaborate and dramatic and shit that none of us could have ever made up and decent and heartkilling and mad and invoking and overbearing.

nine to nine, we inhabited the waiting area and we took turns with the hours in his room.

we read to him.

i sang to him.

i told him about the plots on our favorite shows that my mom had relayed to me, mainly er and scrubs and law and order.

we told him stories.

mostly, we were quiet and watchful.

these were the longest days of lives yet to be truly had.