Some things never change

At around noon, Craig is usually sleeping off a restless morning. Today, however, he’s having a hard time falling asleep. I sit beside him with my hand on his leg. His head is cocked to the right and his eyes are open. He lays wide-eyed, staring at his door of photos. His poor eyesight prevents him from seeing the familiar faces that we’ve taped on his door. I ask him which photo has caught his eye. He makes a “thumbs up” gesture, indicating that he’s looking at the now famous photo of Mom, which was taken shortly after a fall. He asks me about the photo pasted to the left of her picture. It’s of Diane, with Mom peering behind a large vase of flowers. After some moments reminiscing, Craig turns his gaze towards me. His eyes lock in with an intensity I haven’t seen, as if he wanted to tell me something but couldn’t muster the words. I return his tearless gaze, determined that this time, I wouldn’t cry. But then, it hits me. As I gaze into Craig’s blue eyes, I realize the enormity of our situation. There have been countless times where I’ve relayed painful information to friends and families, looked into frightened eyes, and shared the worst without crying. This is not one of them. The tears stream down in a free fall. The impact of tear after tear creates a small dark pool on his sheets. Craig just buzzes my hand, and waits for the outpour to stop. After a few moments of red-faced sniffling, I let out a laugh and admit to Craig that every time I tell myself not to cry, but it never works out as planned. I told him it reminded me of the time when I sat weeping at a restaurant just on the coast of Raleigh beach. Craig’s visit to Thailand provided me the first outlet to really talk about Mom, and I selfishly took advantage. As I cried about Mom, Craig patiently sat next to me. Though he eventually joined me in crying, it wasn’t with the same ferocity. He simply held my hand and listened; he was as strong then as he is now. It’s nice to know some things never change. -- J