And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed Read Free Page B

didn’t need to come home, and I reasoned that if I finished my deadlines now, I could take better care of him when I got home.
    An hour later I packed up my computer and my books, put on my scarf and mittens, and headed home. I flipped on the local radio station that had played a loop of holiday favorites for six solid weeks. The announcers were between songs, debating the weather. With two days left for varying temperature and precipitation, would our Christmas be white? December had been unseasonably warm, and their sources voted no. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, driving the four miles home.
Give me some music. C’mon. You can squeeze a quick carol into this commute.
    Finally they launched into “another fifty minutes of uninterrupted holiday favorites” just as I pulled into the garage. I schlepped all my stuff into the house and unloaded on the kitchen island. As I mindlessly looped my car keys on the hook by the door, I noticed theotherwise spotless kitchen. Robb and his mom planned a lasagna bakeoff for the Christmas feast, and he had made his famous, secret-recipe marinara that morning. The scents of basil, oregano, tomatoes, and bay leaves wafted through the house. Oh, how nice to have my husband home for the week. He was far better at housekeeping than I.
    “Hellooo, boys,” I sang to the three of them.
    Tucker and Tyler ran into the kitchen, cheering my name with delight. Every homecoming should be so sweet. I rounded the corner into the living room, expecting to see football on the TV and the slightly, uncomfortably ill Robb relaxing in his recliner with a bottle of Gatorade. However, instead of football there was an animated Rudolph, snacks strewn on the floor where the children had sprawled, and my husband under a pile of blankets, shaking uncontrollably. Things looked a little worse than I expected. Several remote controls lay on top of Robb’s blankets, and I saw Tucker’s small stool next to the bookcase. How helpful he had been to retrieve all those remotes when his daddy couldn’t get up from his chair.
    I came to Robb’s side. “Hey, babe,” I whispered. I leaned close, unlooping my scarf from around my neck. I kissed his forehead, assessing a fever against my face. He didn’t have a fever. He had no runny nose, no cough. No nothing. Just these awful, horrible shakes. I touched the trembling lump that was his hand, bundled under the blankets. His body writhed under my hands.
    “I need you. I needed you to come home. I can’t do this by myself.” His teeth chattered.
    “I’m here, love. I’m here now.” And why didn’t I come sooner? “I’m here now.”
    Standing and watching closely, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed his dad. I intended to tell him that we needed to tweak the evening plans, that Robb surely couldn’t come, that I should probably stay with him.
Probably,
I was going to say. Still optimistic, still holding loosely to the party plans. More than anybody else, Robb loved Christmas. Surely he wouldn’t want to miss it. Probably a good dose of ibuprofen could kick this thing and all our Christmas plans could still come together. Probably.
    But my voice sounded different than I meant it to; I betrayed my own optimism. The truth was, I had never seen Robb like this before. He was in some kind of horrible shock.
    “You need to take him to the ER. I’ll meet you there,” his dad said. “I’m on my way.” Brief and urgent, he knew what I needed to do.
    To the ER.
    I sprang into action. I called my mom, gave her a quick and simple update, asking her to come and watch the boys. “Something’s up. I need your help.” She arrived moments later while the children were still firmly planted in front of Rudolph. The boys barely glanced my way as I kissed them good-bye on the heels of our hello; such a wonder, the distraction of the TV.
    Robb and I worked as a team to mobilize his trembling body, keeping a trash can close since every move brought a