He had a tube from his throat, three tubes from his sides running into fluid boxes. Red, white, clear. The fluids would get stuck halfway to the boxes on the floor, swaying back and forth within the tube. I stared at the fluid hard, concentrating on not letting him see me upset. He could not speak, eat, or drink but he could mouth words. "I love you". "Go get something to eat." He was worried about my well-being, like he'd been my whole life, before his own. His feet were secured in case he tried to get up.
I hate these images. I hate that he was never able to get well. That I will always, always, remember how he tried so hard. How he wanted to be well so badly. If the doctor told him to walk six laps around the hospital floor, he did ten, with chest tubes, iv's, and me trailing behind. I wanted it so badly for him. I hate that it wasn't enough.