Visiting

 The tables turned, me finding the right ward, asking 'do you need anything.' half knowing that question involves more than a simple answer. Sitting, seeing your friend put on a brave face, watch her tell a nurse she's well when she's just confided she is in pain. And then, saying the things, doing the bits, offering to get stuff, move stuff, help with sheets. And then watching her fall asleep, grimace on her usually joyful face. And sneaking off, knowing how annoying it is if you've fallen asleep to be woken but taking a small parcel of guilt with you that you haven't said goodbye. 

I tried to judge what would be useful to say, I decided on a reminder that this will change and the pain won't last forever, while still acutely aware my pain hasn't gone yet and it's one hell of a long journey. Those, seemingly statutory 6 weeks until, spreading into the longer, perhaps more subtle things that never leave you. the scar, the discomfort, the worry, they memory of no memory and the fear of it all having to happen again. 

I walked out of the familiar smell of the ward, same wherever you go and into the air of London and the tube, home to my safe place and my man. Knowing she can't and knowing she isn't even sure if she wants to be home yet while definitely not wanting to be where she is either.