I sobbed through the next two days. I hurt because our relationship was broken–all because of a stupid stick–and because he wouldn’t forgive me.
I hurt because Tim had gone back to his vomit, in effect (we had made an appointment that very day to start remodeling the apartment). He had no food, clothes, meds or toiletries, no towels, sheets or pillow, would have to share his shower with roaches. He was without his “books and his parchments” or the ability to use his computer. I visualized him sinking back into being dirty and disheveled and malnourished. Without his two Ginkgo biloba a day he would become increasingly forgetful, confused, and paranoid.
And I mourned having to cancel the fun things I’d looked forward to doing together. We had scheduled a visit to the nearby Rancho Los Cerritos. I wanted to take him to Gulliver’s to let him browse the pencil sketches and pen and ink drawings of Lilliputians and Brobdingnagians on the restaurant walls. Besides, we hadn’t finished watching Dombey and Son.