“Because I didn’t want you to decide you wanted to be with me because of a close call. Intense circumstances cause people to make rash decisions. Your reaction a few minutes ago was genuine. You never even looked at me, but you knew you didn’t want me. It was only when you realized I was hurt that you rushed to help me. I don’t want or need your pity or misguided notions of being my savior.”
Slowly sitting up, she winces in pain and her hand covers her abdomen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My incision site is just still sore when I move in certain ways. I’m okay.”
Picking up her cast, she turns until the foot on her bad leg reaches the floor and then moves her good leg to join it. “Can you bring my crutches in here, please?”
Her bottom lip quivers, and she pulls both of her lips into a thin line in an attempt to stop it. She waits for me to move without looking at me. She just stares at the floor, her face crestfallen, and her normally happy eyes are now lackluster. Crossing my arms over the front of me, inhaling deeply to further expand my chest, I take my rigid stance and answer her.
“No. I’m not bringing them to you.”
She looks up at me, and I expect her to fight me tooth and nail like she always has. I expect my Andi to tell me where I can shove those crutches. But her feistiness is not what I see in her eyes. I see defeat. No, it’s actually worse than that. I see heracceptanceof defeat.
She’s broken.
Now I’m broken.
“Okay,” she says sadly.
Then she stands on her good leg and uses the bed to help steady her balance. Looking around, she’s contemplating how she’ll move from the bedroom back to the door where her crutches are waiting. She crouches slightly, preparing to hop on her good leg, when I about lose my shit over her obstinacy.
“Stop,” I command sharply. “Sit down.”
She looks around, unsure of whether she should do it or not. She expended a lot of energy just to get in an upright position, and she doesn’t want to do it all over again. I can see it written all over her face. Her skin has paled in just the last few minutes, and I know she’s already spent too much energy way too fast. She can be so damn stubborn.
“Andi,” I say softer, “sit down before you fall down. You’re not going anywhere right now.”
She looks back at the bed and is visibly more frustrated now.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
A tear drops from her eye, and she quickly whisks it away. “I can’t sit down without help.” Her hand moves to cover her incision area, giving away her thoughts and explaining the problem at the same time.
“I’ll help you,” I offer.
“If you’d just get my crutches, I can do it.”
“I’m right here, you stubborn girl. Let me help you. Besides, I’m afraid if I walk away now, you’ll pass out and hurt yourself more.”
Her shoulders droop in resignation. “Okay,” she whispers.
Moving closer to her, I carefully lift her and remain motionless for an extra moment or two, just holding her while I can. She feels so right in my arms, and I pray that we haven’t hurt each other beyond repair. As I place her back on the bed, it hits me how insensitive I’ve been over her injuries.
“Did I hurt you when I picked you up before? I didn’t know about your incision,” I say apologetically.
“No,” she says softly with a shake of her head.
“What did they have to do?”
“They had to go in and stop the internal bleeding. Thankfully, my spleen hadn’t completely ruptured, so they were able to save it.”
“That’s good news,” I say, unsure of my own words. “Can I get you anything?”
“My crutches.”
“Besides that.”
