Yukon Goes and I Stay

This is the first night I've spent alone in my bed not lying huddled under the covers crying and praying and bargaining with God to please, please, save my husband. Nor will I wake up every five minutes thinking I heard the landline ring or my cell phone vibrate.

Yukon is gone, and I'm here. I didn't even get to take him to the airport where he left for a week in Medford, Oregon for a business trip. Strange, but at the same time wonderful. How crazy is that?

Granted, our lives are different, now. While Yukon's elbow has healed well it is still locked in a funky position that makes carrying things like luggage a bit difficult. This is the first solo trip since the bicycle crash that sent Yukon and our family careening into a month of hospitals, therapy appointments, and discoveries of faith and loss. But he, and we, survived, and I suppose this day had to arrive at some point.

This is the part of caregiving many people forget about; the letting go. Letting go the pain of illness. Relinquishing my almost-constant supervision over Yukon's broken body and allowing him to make decisions concerning therapy and treatment and asking before jumping in myself. Releasing my patient and reconnecting with my husband.

This will be a good week for both of us. Yukon can power ahead with some important work and visit his parents, who are most anxious to lay eyes upon their youngest son. Bear will be able to see with his own eyes Dad is able to get through the airport, onto a plane, and to his grandparents house all by himself (this has worried him).

And I?

I'm going to finally switch back to my side of the bed.

Where I belong.