Sick.

I lay there, crippled by the betrayal of my own body.  Poisoned bitterly by the toxins within me, writhing in agony.  Just hours before, I was a man standing on my own two feet.  Yet come nightfall I lay feebly fetal, curled up on a ball on the cold linoleum bathroom floor. The pain was terrifying, my own muscles screaming mutiny as they seized and contorted to betray me, to flay me alive a man on the slab torn by the content his own limbs.  I thought of death and dying, pain and crying and it filled me.

Yet, all I can remember is how she lay beside me, calming soothing.  She awoke each time I stirred, and each cry of pain, each grotesque drip from my battered bowels, she heard.  She rubbed my spine as I threw up the contents of my insides, left there in the porcelain platter bare and battered in front of her.  She saw me at my weakest.  And she carried me and comforted me, wiping the sweat from my brow and the bile from my chin and lay me down time and time again to rest in her bed.

No one loves you, like the person who loves you when you’re sick.  And I’ll forever love you for this.

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