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I’m anxious and worried, and Oliver’s confused enough to make it necessary for me to speak on his behalf. Of course, because the only person I can effectively communicate with is in incredible pain, this makes talking twice as hard as it usually is. My hands, clamped around my knees as I sit in a chair pushed to the corner of the room, ache from how hard I’m clenching them.

The doctor, a tall, willowy woman with shiny black hair and clever dark eyes, lowers Oliver’s bed and gently lifts his gown. She talks to him as she works, telling him what she’s doing and why. Even still, he gasps and flinches in pain when she palpates his abdomen, no matter how gently she appeared to do it. When she asks him questions about how he fell and how hard the contact was, he struggles once more.

“I didn’t fall,” he tells her. My throat tightens.

“You-you-you-you-you-you di-di-did,” I correct. Everyone in the room looks at me. Sharp slivers of pain radiate from the knuckles of my fingers from how hard I’m clenching them. There’s no time to practice the words—taking a deep breath, I slow down, speaking as carefully as I can. “He-he fell-fell-fellwhile he-he-he-helping Co-co-co-co-co?—”

“Cody? When he was helping Cody?” one of the nurses helpfully fills in. Every inch of my body feels hot as I nod, teeth clicking together from how fast I clench my jaw closed.

“On-on-on the gu-gu-gunwale,” I add, swallowing. Nobody is looking at me now, although I can tell they’re paying attention. It’s not as though the room can stand still, giving me time to get the words out. Time doesn’t slow down for anyone in a hospital.

“Yes, that’s what happened,” Oliver agrees, although he doesn’t sound as though he fully believes it, and there’s a light of fear in his eyes. Next to him, the monitor beeps, and the lines on the screen jump sporadically.

Eventually, the doctor orders a bedside ultrasound and asks Oliver if he’d like me to leave the room.

“Leave?” he repeats, frowning.

“Typically, we only allow family members to be in the room during?—”

“Nils is my…is my… Nils is my…” He looks over at me, fingers tapping against the rail of the bed. I want to give both the answer that Oliver wants, as well as the one that will make sure the doctor allows me to stay in the room.

“Par-par-par-partner,” I fill in, hoping the only thing that would allow me to stay isn’t “husband.”

Oliver nods vigorously before adding, in a moment of clarity, “And I want to add him to my HIPAA.”

We’re left alone for a few blessed moments of quiet as we wait for the portable ultrasound to be brought in. I approach thebed, leaning on the railing and sliding a hand through Oliver’s hair. He hums happily, eyes closed, a little more comfortable now that some pain medication has been administered.

“Feeling better?” I ask quietly, closing my eyes in silent thank-you for the fact that came out smoothly. The inside of my throat feels raw, like I’m coming down with a cold, head fuzzy with fear and shame.

“A bit, yeah. We’ll probably be able to leave soon,” he replies, opening his eyes and grinning at me.

Unfortunately, we are not able to leave soon. In fact, the whirlwind of today continues to spiral into the night, bringing us along with it. The ultrasound shows positive for a ruptured spleen, which ramps up both Oliver’s and my anxiety. The doctor, who doesn’t seem to think there is anything to stress about, calmly sends him for a CT scan as well, wanting to have a better idea of what grade of injury they’re dealing with. When he comes back, his vital signs remain unstable, and while the confusion does seem to have cleared somewhat, he once more starts complaining about the pain. Again, the care team seems to be expecting this. The wordcommonis thrown around several times, as though hearing that left arm pain is usual with this type of injury should make me feel better. It doesn’t.

When they mention treatment options, I leave my corner chair and take a spot next to the bed. Oliver looks overwhelmed, eyes foggy with pain, confusion, and tiredness. I have never felt so useless and unintelligent as I do right now, listening to the physician explain a procedure called embolization and trying to understand. I can tell the doctor is trying to dumb it down.To use small words and simple explanations. Even still, my mind feels burdened with misunderstanding and nerves, and by the time she’s asking if I have any questions, I feel like I have nothingbutquestions. All I heard was a list of possible complications I don’t fully understand and details filled with words I can’t even spell.

Oliver glances up at me in dismay, probably wishing as much as I do that we could start this entire day over and do it differently. I lean over the hospital bed when the anesthesia team comes to take him back for the procedure, putting an arm around him and blocking out the rest of the room. Carefully, I try to give him the best hug I can from the awkward angle, pressing a very quick kiss to his hair. He smells like his flower shampoo.

“Love you,” he whispers, voice small and sad and a little bit scared, like he’s worried this might be his one chance to tell me.

There are far more people in this room than I’d like. There’s too much discomfort in Oliver’s eyes than I’d like. In a perfect world, we would not be in a hospital, he would not be going to have a serious medical procedure, and I would not have a speech impediment. Closing my eyes, face still beside his, I think about Oliver sitting wrapped in a blanket next to my fireplace, skin glowing and warm from the fire, eyes happy and mouth smiling. I think about snow and lace and singing in the kitchen.

“I-I-I love you-you-you-you,” I reply, kissing his temple again and squeezing his hand to let him know everything will be fine.

The moment I’m left alone in the room, it feels as thoughthe energy and noise has been vacuumed away. Everything—from the minute we checked in to the moment they wheeled him back to the operating room—was done efficiently. With the room empty of Oliver and quiet for the first time since we got here, I feel every moment crashing down on me. It’s been hours. It’ll likely be hours more before he’s done, and days after that before he’ll be allowed to come home. That was one thing I didn’t need explained twice when the doctor was going over all the information. “Inpatient stay” had made Oliver flinch and weariness drape over me like a shroud. I understand the necessity and am grateful that he’ll have a few days of constant care. I’m also wishing he could have that same thing at home—my home—because he’d be more comfortable, and I could be the one to take care of him.

Settling into my little corner chair, I tip my head back against the wall and close my eyes for a few moments. I need to call Shiloh. Or text, rather, because I need to save up my words for Oliver and the doctor, and I am so, so tired of speaking today. Sighing, I set a timer on my phone based on the doctor’s estimation of how long Oliver will be back for surgery. Then, I text Shiloh.

Oliver looks worse in the recovery room than he did prior to the procedure. He’s pale and washed out in the glaring fluorescent lighting. Tubes and thin wires sneak below the neckline of his hospital gown, machines beeping steadily and throwing little lines of color across the screen. I stare at those numbers, wishingI could make sense of them. The doctor had told me everything went fine, and now he just needs to rest while they monitor him. Oliver sleepily blinked his eyes open a little while ago, answered a few questions from the care team, voice slightly slurred, and then fell back asleep.That’s good, the doctor told me, jotting down the numbers Oliver had given her when she asked him to rate his pain.

Carefully sliding my chair closer to the bed, I reach for the little paper cup of coffee the nurse brought me. She’s refilled it four times and even brought me a little packet of crackers. She didn’t say anything, but I could see the knowing look in her eye of a person who’s watched hundreds of people in my position. At some point, I’m sure she’ll have to ask me to leave. But until then, I settle back with my saltines and black coffee, watching Oliver.

I’m a little afraid to touch him. I don’t want to cause any pain by jostling an IV site or disrupt the things that are monitoring his vitals. I’m familiar with hospitals, given the number of medical issues my mom has had to contend with, not to mention just listening to the stories my brother-in-law will tell about his time working in emergency departments. But I’m not sure any level of familiarity with the process could provide comfort. I’ve been slowly reading through the educational materials they gave me about splenic trauma and the embolization procedure. Half of me is glad to know what to expect, while the other half is terrified by the list of possible complications.

It’s these I’m reading through again, heart pounding like I’m hauling traps on theDrifterand not sitting in a chair, whenOliver wakes up again. He makes the same, sleepy little noise he does in bed at home, half yawn, half groan. Immediately, I stand up and drop the papers onto the chair. His eyes are open when I lean over him, and he smiles.

“Hello,” he says, voice a little raspy. “What time is it?” I hold my phone out to show him. He sighs. “I’m so tired.”

Touching his head, I gently run my fingers through his hair. He no longer smells like himself, but a mix of iodine and antiseptic.