We got the call early this morning, only a few minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off anyway. “I’m in the hospital,” she said.

She needs us, but the need isn’t immediate. So, we begin to get ready to go and wait, almost like it’s a routine. It’s been almost 10 months since we have been there, but we remember. We shower and wash our hair. It takes time, but we know it will be better later.

Yes, she’s in the ER, but we stop for breakfast. Once we enter the hospital, there’s no exit. We will survive on what we find in the vending machine and the in the bottom of my massive purse. We make sure to stock water, gum and a Snickers from the gas station. We know we’ll need it later.

We bring things to entertain us: phones and chargers; a laptop for him and a book for me.  We just don’t know if we’ll be on our knees, talking to the doctors, or watching minutes tick away on the anticeptic clock on the wall in this room, that room, and every room we enter. We wait. We wait.

And she waits. For a nurse, a room, a disgnosis. For relief.

And we wait.