We had decided that to would be best to have our daily phone call in the early evenings. It gave me something to look forward to all day long and plus I could tell him about that day rather than the day before.
I had finally settled down, well somewhat, and the anxiety had lifted to the point where I had stopped taking medication for a heart that wouldn't stop pounding and a brain that kept questioning how I, how we, would survive this. The letters, this blog and the 10 minute call would get me through on a day by day basis. Plus, 7 days marked one week. It was a milestone of sorts. We had made it through the first day and now the first week of alone-ness - together.
I even joined a ladies drumming circle at the church and had escaped for an hour into the rhythm of a deerskin drum. It was freeing. It was magical. I couldn't wait to share the experience. But I didn't. The phone call didn't arrive. I was back in the pathos of not knowing.
I stay awake most of the night. Has he been hurt? Did he have a heart attack (and would someone call me if he did?) Has he lost his phone privileges if so, how? Was it something not so serious like the phones were down? Were they moving him?
I pop a tranquilizer and wait for sleep that doesn't come.
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