Every time the doctors say that he can go home, I consider it a small victory. A win, because I know that he is happier in the comfort of his home, and no one can get any real rest at the hospital. The lights are too bright, and the noise is too constant. Nurses go about their daily routines, checking vital signs hourly.
Every time they admit him to the hospital, I consider it a small victory. A chance for me to breathe a little more comfortably, knowing that there is someone by his side that can help him and ease his pain just a little bit. I sleep a little harder because if anything goes wrong, there is aid at the touch of his fingertips.
Every time they shock his heart because of its malfunctioning, I consider it a small victory because they’ve brought him back again. A life that he grasps for and fights to keep having. With five heart attacks, an open-heart surgery, and now a motor instead of two valves to pump blood through his body, it’s a victory that he is even with us.
