I am unable to sleep. The white noise of Waverly's oxygen condenser is a new and unknown sound. And I am so desperate to hear her breathing, that I think sleep will be elusive tonight.
I keep thinking about random things:
How sad I will be when I no longer have anything she has worn in my laundry basket. How some birthday dresses I ordered for her are on backorder and will arrive too late. How I don't want to move her wheelchair from our entryway.
And then I think about very real things:
How will I continue living my life in the same routine with only Oliver. How her absence is going to be ever present. That I may sleep in her bedroom forever.
I am going to climb into bed with her tonight. I want to hold her hand and feel her warmth. I want to kiss her cheeks and whisper in her ear.
I have already told her that we will be ok. I have told her that I understand she is oh so tired. I have told her that she can go when she is ready.
I asked her to send me signs that she is ok. To send reminders that she is ever present.
Waverly has always been a good listener.