The truth had been right there, sitting on the edge of my own bed with its back to me, shaking.

And I had rolled over and gone back to sleep, because I did not yet know that the patient my husband was grieving that night was himself.

I have wondered, since, what would have happened if I had done the other thing that night, if I had gotten up and sat beside him on the edge of that bed and put my arms around him and simply refused to accept rough night as an answer.

Perhaps nothing.