At the best point yesterday, she got off the breathing tube. And words came out of her mouth. Raspy wonderful words that we hadn’t heard in over six days. And we laughed because we were so happy. And for a while the things she said were sort of funny. Things like, “Well, I’m going to go home now.” and “I’m not sick.” and “Why are you lying to me?” and “If you loved me, you’d get me out of here.” and “Why are you doing this to me?” and “David, I thought I could trust you…are you in on this too?”

The extubation made her sound like a chain-smoking trucker. And sometimes she cursed like one too.

And she furrowed her brow and spoke with such complete sincerity, it made our hearts fill and deflate all at once.

And gradually this became less celebratory and funny. And gradually we stopped feeling like it was the best point. And gradually we started realizing it might be the worst.

Later that night, I talked to her about Honey, and she finally smiled and remembered how she licked her ears. And that was good. And she seemed more clear. More herself. She said “I love you, David” and “You’re so special to me.” and “I’m scared.”

And I told her I loved her. And I was too numb to cry.

And that might have been the best point yesterday. Or the worst. It’s hard to tell.