throw away this wrinkled map

each morning is a mess of tubes, the steady pump of oxygen and the overwhelming heaviness of illness. i'm tense until i get to work where at least for seven hours i can pretend to do something other than worry, other than ache to my bones with hopelessness and fear and sadness. at the end of the day it's still there and his heart still beats and i'm ashamed of my despair because he's not gone yet, he's in the bed and i can ask him if he remembers this trip and that concert. he's confused and asks for water and all i can do is cry and grieve the loss of conversation and memories and the strong, proud, intelligent man he once was, now lost to the blur and murmur of pills and morphine drips.