Mercy General Hospital, downtown Chicago, was unnervingly quiet at 3 a.m.
The whole white building felt like a giant beast, asleep with its mouth slightly open. Only the faint green hallway lights and the cold, flickering EXIT sign stained the walls with a sickly glow. The smell of antiseptic, bandages, and old linens clung to the air—one of those scents that, if you breathe it too long, makes your head heavy and your lungs tighten.
I sat hunched on a folding chair beside the bed, my back half-propped against the wall, half suspended in midair. My spine ached like someone was twisting it by hand. But I didn’t dare move much. Even the smallest creak from the chair could make the man in the bed frown and groan.
That man was my husband, Michael.
He lay perfectly still, both legs wrapped in thick white casts and suspended in a traction frame—a tangled mess of ropes and pulleys. He looked like a specimen fate had decided to put on display.
Michael let out a soft moan, his voice thin and broken. Sweat dotted his forehead. His eyebrows pulled into one dark line.
I shot up instantly, my own legs so numb they felt like they didn’t belong to me. I poured a glass of warm water, stuck a straw in it, and held it to his lips.
“Mike, drink some water,” I whispered. “It’ll help with the dryness. Just sip slowly.”
He struggled to open his eyes.
Those eyes used to melt my heart with their kindness. Now they were bloodshot, staring at me with a mixture of guilt and weakness.
“Emily… this is too hard on you,” he rasped. “I was so careless on the road, and now you have to take time off work to care for me. I feel so useless.”
I managed a faint smile, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Don’t be silly. We’re husband and wife. The stronger one helps the weaker one. You’re laid up now, so I’ll take care of you. If it were me, you’d do the same. This is our life, not someone else’s. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I used a tissue to wipe a few drops of water from the corner of his mouth.
But my heart still felt that deep, sharp pang.
Three days ago, Michael had a car accident on his way home. The Chicago police report concluded it was brake failure—his car slammed into a median. He was lucky to be alive.
But the doctor, after looking at the X-rays, had sighed and told me, “Severe fractures with nerve compression. You need to prepare yourselves. There’s a chance he may be in a wheelchair for a long time.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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