I think it's the left side closest
to you in bed I get up and half of me doesn't
work
~ "Half Life"
You know, Roger, I think that maybe I can't really live here without you. Half of me is…not right somehow. I feel like it's not working the way it should be. It's kind of like losing the feeling in your foot. There's that stage between pins and needles and complete numbness where you can't feel anything but it hurts anyway. Half of me hurts anyway.
I feel kind of stupid saying this, but I think it's my left side. How lame is that, 'my left side'? But I woke up this morning after just a few hours fitful rest, and I laid there for a moment and realized that it was my left side.
Your room is to the left of mine. I usually wake to you shuffling around over there, cursing underneath your breath when you trip over your dirty laundry. It's silent now as I roll out of bed to get dressed.
You sit on the left end of the table. I'll pull up a chair at one end and pick absently at a script while you pick absently at a song. We can sit there and work for hours. I glance briefly at the abandoned papers sitting on the table as I head out the door.
You walk on my left side down the street. I stick close to the curb and let you navigate the crowds, bumping shoulders with people as we make our way around town. A woman knocks into me now and I just roll my eyes and move on.
When I push the door to your hospital room open, you smile dopily at me and I see you've gotten your morning meds. They always make you a little loopy for a while. You mumble on about some nurse's kid while I pull a chair up along your right side and for the first time since 7:30 last night, I feel everything again.
