No one told him to get into that bed at the hospital. He didn’t see a nurse wave at him or hear a doctor say he could go. No one imagined he would seek for permission, and he didn’t. He did it anyhow. He walked slowly and carefully, as if it were the most natural thing in the world and that place was built only for him. My dad stepped past the IV pole and the machines that were clicking out data and sat down next to my mom. He instantly wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her tightly, like someone who has loved you for a long time would. He didn’t hold her to save her from being sick; no arms could do that. He held her so she wouldn’t be alone. He didn’t want her to go to sleep by herself.
I couldn’t move when I was standing in the door. I shouldn’t have gone there that late, but I did since I was bored and couldn’t sleep. I didn’t even know what I wanted. What I found was them. My mom and dad. Even in a hospital room that is cold and sterile and only has the glow of machines and a small overhead light, I am still choosing each other and being there for each other.
He was lying next to my mom. She looked pale because of the chemotherapy, and her hair was thin under a knitted cap that someone from the cancer center had crocheted for her. But she didn’t seem sick at the moment. She looked like a woman who was happy and safe in the arms of the man she had built her life with. It was so great that it was hard to describe. It wasn’t as romantic as stories say it is. There were no flowers or poems. It was just being there. Simply touch. It was a love that never changed.
They didn’t see me right away. They might not have had to. I observed them for a long time before my dad turned around and saw me. He didn’t say anything; he just stared at me with a tired but strong face. Then he touched the vacant space on the side of the bed with the tiniest of movements. It was just big enough for one person, not three. But the gesture was more than just clearing space. It was a plea for you to come. An invitation to stop pretending and deal with what hurt.
As I walked slowly approaching them, I wasn’t sure if I should be there. I wanted to leave again, to go back to my distractions and the thought that everything will be OK soon. But something kept me from going. At first, I sat on the edge, but then I leaned in and held my mom’s hand. It felt velvety, but it was much smaller than I thought it would be. The chemotherapy had taken more than just her hair. I took a deep breath.
“I’ve been scared,” I said gently, not wanting to say it out loud.
Dad didn’t seem surprised. He only nodded and kept staring at her. He remarked in a low voice, “Do you think you’re the only one?” “Love isn’t just about the little things.” It’s about being there for someone when things are tough.
The words impacted me in a place I didn’t know I had locked up. I had been avoiding the hospital for a long time, only going when I had to check a box and keeping myself busy so I wouldn’t have to worry. But there was my dad, who didn’t say anything, holding my mom like she was made of light, memory, and all nice things. And then, all of a sudden, I wanted to be like that too. I wanted to stop running away. I wanted to know how to stay.
So I stayed. I stayed there all night until the nurses changed shifts. I stayed with her till her breathing slowed down, and he held her hand the whole time. Even though I didn’t know how to help, I stayed. Being there was enough for me.
In the weeks that followed, I started coming back more often. I handed my mom the books she likes best. I went with her to her treatments. Sometimes I was quiet, and other times I talked about trivial things that made her happy. I started leaving work a little earlier and putting off tasks that weren’t as important. I learned that being brave didn’t mean not being scared; it meant being there anyhow.
Then, after months, something happened that none of us had hoped for: she started to get better. Her health started to become better over time. The scans got better. She started eating again. She talked in a loud voice. I hadn’t heard her laugh in a long time, but it came back, first slowly and then all at once.
We termed it a miracle. The doctors were cautiously hopeful. But the biggest miracle for me wasn’t simply that she got better; it was that I did too. I stopped evaluating love by what people said or did and started seeing it in the serene, consistent presence of being present. My father always knew that. He didn’t have to bring it up. He lived it every day.
I still think about that night, even now I’m out of the hospital and done with my treatments. I recall how my father’s hand felt when it patted the bed and welcomed me into something sacred. I recall how my mother looked when she leaned into his arms for safety. I remember what love looked like when it was hard, and that’s why I know I’ll never turn away again.
We don’t say love in long speeches. It’s not in the flowers or the big things that happen. It’s when you go to the hard places, hug someone close, and say “You’re not alone” without saying anything.
And that’s something I’ll always remember.
