Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

and machines. A constant steady beep beep beep was the soundtrack to her reunion with her son.
    Stifling a resigned sigh, she walked over to his side, kissed his head, and whispered, "Good bye."
    She turned around and left the room. As she passed through the waiting room once more on her way out of the hospital, she stopped in front Andrew and said, "Tell my son I love him."
    Then Shawn's mother walked out of the hospital and her son's life forever, knowing her husband would never let her see him again. Knowing she was not brave enough to leave the life her husband made possible.
    CHAPTER 6
    Beep.
    Beep.
    Beep.
    I tried to move my arm to slap the snooze button on my alarm but found myself tangled in wires and groaning in pain as soon as I attempted motion. I froze, afraid and trying to figure out where I was.
    The steady beep beep beep noise was still going and I faintly registered that it was too…something…to be an alarm. Too fast, too constant, who knows.
    I cautiously opened my eyes. Andrew's blurry face slowly came into focus and I felt him grab my hand to keep it from flailing about.
    "Hello, sleepy head." Andrew smiled at me. I felt my insides go all mushy and warm.
    I opened my mouth to say hello back and all that came out was a sort of hoarse groan. I stopped myself at the last second from shaking my head to try and clear it but it was a near thing. Instead, I closed my mouth, focused on gathering some saliva and swallowing it to moisten my throat.
    I opened my mouth to speak again and, again, all that came was a wordless animal sounds. My heart started racing and I began to panic. I couldn't speak. Oh my God. I was about to spiral into hyperventilation when I felt Andrew's hand on my head.
    "Hey, hey, Shawn. Calm down. It's okay. The doctor said you might have trouble talking. Remember. Just breathe." He kept his hand on my forehead and continued to murmur, "Breathe in, breathe out, there you go" until I had calmed down.
    When I was breathing normally again, he took my right hand, which was currently free of IV's or any other wiry connections, and placed it gently on the hospital tray.
    "You have a pen and paper here if you need to write anything. They left your right hand free. For simple things, Dr. Tillman suggested blink once for yes and twice for no. Is that okay?"
    I blinked once. I was so relieved that I could still communicate I wanted to write something right away. I picked up the pen. It felt clumsy in my hand and my fingers could barely grip it. It was like they were only getting part of the signal from my brain. I had to spend twice as much effort for half as much result. Nevertheless, I managed to scratch out my note of three words.
    The handwriting was a mess, and it looked like a three year old had written it, but it was legible, if just barely.
    Andrew's face lit up as he read it, and tears streamed down his face. He leaned over and kissed me gently. "I love you, too."
    Before he could say more, we were interrupted by Dr. Tillman coming in the room. He smiled broadly, all trace of his poker face gone.
    "I see you are awake now, Shawn. That's really good. Your surgery went very well. You will probably need some speech and occupational therapy before you will be able to get up and around, and I will need to see you back in here in a month to take some more pictures of your brain, but I am very hopeful."
    ****
    Two weeks later
    Andrew was hovering again. It seemed like he was always there, tucking blankets, offering water, questioning whether I was warm enough, fixing bandages. At first I was grateful, and I know I should still be grateful, but damn it, I didn't need him to do everything for me.
    I was frustrated because therapy didn't seem to going as fast as I would like. It was still hard for me to use my right hand, and my left hand had always been pretty useless. Furthermore, I still hadn't been able to speak words yet. All I could manage were the sound exercises my speech therapist gave me. As soon as I tried to string those sounds together into words, it fell apart between my brain and my mouth.
    If I had to blink one more time, I was going to scream, and it wouldn't be pretty.
    Andrew came back from the bathroom with a glass of water and leaned over to fluff my pillow behind my head for the twentieth time in the last hour.
    I lost it.
    I batted his hand away and without thinking growled, "Stop fussing" at him. It sounded more like Shlop fushing, and was in a low rough voice I had