intensive care unit

image by jonah pettrich

One of my dearest friends, Jim, is in the hospital, in the ICU, on and off life-support this past week. This all happened rather suddenly.

I met Jim online, four years ago. He lives in Florida, across the country from me.

And yet, he has become:

The person I talk to almost every day.
The person I send my newsletters to (often several times) before I send them out.
The person who keeps me company over Facetime when I am baking bread (this often screws up this recipe) or cutting up brussel sprouts for this other dish I like (fewer mishaps on this recipe).

And so much more.

We watch the US Open together. We watch Yankees (him)-Red Sox (me) games together. We laugh, almost every time we talk, even when life is difficult.

Sometimes I will say to my husband: we are so lucky I have Jim in my life, because, truly, I am blessed by his steadfast love and support. My husband and I are each aware how good it has been for me, and Jim, to have each other.

Sometimes I have said to one or the other of them (as they are each older than me): I will be lost in a world without both of you in it.

I try to keep moving, when I can.

Last Wednesday, I baked a loaf of bread, thinking of my friend.

Now I need to turn out another loaf. The final half slice of last week’s bread is in the toaster as I write this.

I spoke to Jim, briefly, on Monday, and he asked if I would read him one of my stories, something he has always loved.

“Today?” I asked. “Tomorrow,” he said. He was so very tired.

But then things got more difficult for him.

I feel suspended in the oddest place.

Waiting. Praying. Breathing.

Pacing. Crying. Freezing. Falling.

Rising.

I bow to every moment.