He coaxed me back, promising a trip south.  He booked a room in a luxury inn, insisted on paying it all, urged me to board the dog and cat until Monday so we could come home at a leisurely pace.  We took the bikes so that we could travel the island by pedal power.  The trip down was wonderful, relaxing.  It had been over 20 years since I'd visited the area, and so much had changed that I didn't recognize it.  The inn was beautiful, surrounded by lush gardens.  Our suite was amazing, and I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming.  We went out to dinner - I picked up the tab, and as we walked back, my right flank began to burn with pain. 

Kidney stone. 

I played it off, saying nothing.  I needed to start slamming water, but D wanted to window shop.  For an hour or so, we wandered from store to store - looking at touristy crap and overpriced sex toys.  Finally, he noticed that I was holding my side, "Are you okay?  What's wrong with your back?"  I told him that I needed some water, and instead of heading to the bar he was jonesin' to drink at (surely they'd have water - I'd just drink 2 or 3 glasses of water to every alcoholic drink - and I'd flush that stone out).  Nope.  We went back to the hotel, on foot.  His mood was slipping.

His trip was ruined then.  He wanted to give me beer, but I can't drink regular beer because I have Celiac Disease.  He growled that I should drink it anyway.

I drank water.  The pain became worse, excruciating to the point that I began vomiting.  He wanted to call an ambulance.  I was afraid to go to the hospital.  The bills would be horrible even with the insurance.  They'd not do anything more than medicate me; I was certain that they didn't have a weekend operating room team.  I moaned in pain.  At 2:00 am I crawled into a tub of hot water and soaked for 4 hours until the stone dropped into the bladder.  I got no rest.   He scooted out of bed as I slipped between the sheets, dressed and left.  He returned 45 minutes later, "I moved the truck closer and put the bikes in the back.  We need to go.  I can't believe no one called the cops.  You sounded like you were dying."

As if it weren't bad enough, he told me that he would have left me at the hospital if I had chosen to go, "I wouldn't have stayed for you.  I decided that you could find your own way home."  We were 5 hours away, the closest car rental was 3 hours away.  The gravity of his words made the room spin before my eyes.  He would have left me completely stranded and with no other option to get back other than hitch-hiking, because I had a kidney stone.

I burst into tears.

I begged to stay, even pleading for another chance (while Devil me looked on in amazement and horror).  I was an emotional wreck, overtired.  He agreed to stay, and I knew it would be a choice that I'd regret.  He had seen a breakfast cart in the garden.  There was yogurt, coffee, juice, fruit and baked goods.  I took a banana and a small cup of yogurt, the only offerings that I could eat.  He ate well, polishing off a few yogurt cups, an apple, a bagel and a croissant, "Well, I'm good till lunch."  He didn't ask me if I was okay.  He just got up and walked away, leaving me with the paper cups and napkins.  I dumped them in the trash, and followed him.  He closed the door in my face.  I sighed, looking miserable, and tapped on the door.  He opened it, "You don't have your key?  I got you one when I settled the bill."  I didn't ask why, just murmured thanks and slipped it in my pocket.

He smiled little, spoke less, and generally made me feel shitty for the rest of the day.  We stumbled onto a street bazaar, and he urged me to buy some trinkets for myself.  I found a sandal shop, tried on shoes while he sat on the bench.  I wondered if he'd leave me, but he surprised me by trying on a pair of sandals and purchasing them.  I wondered that all day.  I picked up the tab for lunch, drank a gluten-free beer and a couple glasses of water.  He picked up the receipt and scrutinized it before handing it to me.  When we got back to the inn with the purchases (I carried them clumsily in a tote while trying to navigate the streets on my bike), he stood in front of the window looking at the pool.  I shrugged, changed into my bathing suit and grabbed a towel.  He decided to join me.  I wasn't sure if he would since he's sensitive about his weight (he admitted that he'd gained close to 30 lbs since he started seeing me - intoning that somehow it was my fault).  He ignored me, swam away to the opposite end of the pool.  We stared at each other, palm blossoms raining down to speckle the water and our heads.  I sighed, and a tear slid down my cheek.  No one saw it.  He swam back, got out and toweled off, "The key is here, when you're done..."  In front of all the others, a snub.  I sighed and wished everyone a good afternoon, then I got out and headed back to the room.

I wished we had gone back in the morning.  How the hell was I supposed to predict a kidney stone?  Hell would be more pleasant than this.  Devil me turned the faucet on the shower, "I thought he'd soften a bit with sex, but it's not really helping.  You should have left this morning."  I peeled off my suit, nodding while tears ran down like rain.  "Don't do this to yourself again.  It's abusive."  I nodded again.

I picked up the tab for dinner, and he finally smiled and spoke, thanking me, going on about how it wasn't expected.  I looked away, murmuring that it was no trouble at all, trying to make up for the sleepless night.  I looked down at my plate and felt a wave of sadness that was so overwhelming that I jumped up and fairly ran to the bathroom.  I cried a little, digging at my eyes.  One more night.  He wanted to go back to the inn.  There would be no music or bar-hopping. 

Odd, but I chalked it up to fatigue.  It wasn't, of course.  Weeks later he would accuse me of controlling his behavior.  Besides, he was afraid I'd get arrested, or get in a bar fight.  What the f***? 

We went back to the room.  The next morning we packed and went out to breakfast at a bar.  There are no alcohol ordinances like we have so it was really strange to sit at the bar with drunken people giggling into their drinks while we ate omelets.  He picked up the tab, mentioned that the Bloody Marys we sipped made it expensive.  I immediately offered to pay (although I was getting pretty disgusted at that point), "No, no.  I've got it." 

We left.  He slid into a nasty mood on the road.  Five hours of his brand of punishing me with a verbal barrage of digs at my lack of intelligence and how his weekend was ruined.  I finally said that I'd pay for the second night at the inn - $240.  No, that wasn't necessary.  I didn't point out that him screaming at me wasn't necessary either.

I sent the check later that week, and pledged to stay away. 

I sleep better now, but the dreams I have are strange and sad.

I text D.  He replies, buoyant and happy.  He's thrilled to have me back in his life.  He acts as if I never really left.  Bustling about, he tries to make up for the months I've been absent.  He doesn't see that I'm more reserved than ever.  I don't talk much, allowing him to fill the room with anecdotes and stories, and responding with a nod.  I feel like a stranger.  I tell myself that I can't love this time, that it's only a physical thing now.

I'm lonely.  D is better than nothing.

It shows in my face, because I can't hide pain well.  When he asks me about it I wave it away, "Just preoccupied with stuff at work...or at home."  I leave the room often because I'm truly at a loss.  There is no peace when I'm with D.  He feels like a burden now, and I'm not comfortable visiting him.  I sit in the driveway for long minutes debating with myself, "Should I go in, or leave?" 

He has no idea that I feel this way.  As I back off, he rallies, taking a few weeks off work - devoted to spending time with me.  He wants to take a trip.  I have no call or work on the weekends.  I toss out weak excuses.  He tells me that this weekend he can't see me.  Ahhhhh.  That old familiar refrain...is it the fair weathers, or a weekend trip with L?  I shake my head, send out feelers.  He hasn't been obvious so I vote for weekend with L.  I feel pretty shitty about the whole thing, but he offers to take me out for sushi on Sunday night.  I lie to him, "I won't know until Sunday if I can come over.  I tentatively push for an earlier time, but he's firm.

Because his plans are always more important than time with me.

I need to get the electronics straightened out.  I'll stick around long enough for that to happen.  Once that's done, I believe I'll slip away for good.

Because I don't love him, and I know he doesn't love me.

I track our times together.  I plan on doing that for the next month or two.  It's ammunition, of course.  Damning.  

I can't figure out why I need tangible proof that he sees me infrequently. 

We pushed the heavy bed through the hallways to the big elevator.  W bagged the patient through his fresh tracheostomy while I tugged at the foot of the bed, "Is his oxygen saturation any better?"  W nods, "It's 97%.  I'm not sure why it was low in the room."  Visitors pause to gawk so I pull the bed a little faster.  Soon we're inside the big elevator, quiet except for the sound of the patient breathing against W's efforts.  He's probably just about ready to come off the ventilator upstairs.  His eyes open on occasion, but they focus on nothing, the pupils pinpoint from the narcotics he received during surgery. 

When we arrive in ICU we noisily proceed to his room, all monitors, IV pumps, ventilator and glass walled.  There is a tiny bathroom but the patients never use them.  We give report, help connect the patient to monitors and the ventilator, and gather our things to leave.

The visitor in the next room looks at me sadly.  I recognize him and his wife.  She's been in hospitals for the last 3 years.  My students took care of her.  Both of them were demanding, but she's become so frail and he's come to the realization that she'll not be coming home.  She's on contact precautions for a bacterial infections.  I stand at the doorway, "I saw you in the cafeteria a few weeks back, so I knew that she didn't go home."  He looked at me, resigned, "It's not for us to know when."  She was close to death; he knew it.  Somehow, she was hanging on.  "I've been praying for you....for comfort," I told him sincerely.  Words fail me then, because the deepest sorrow isn't soothed by words.  Despair is something that simply has to settle in the middle of the room, huge and terrible.  When it decides to move along it meanders out, stopping to inspect the corners of the room, waiting to see if it will be invited back. 

I left  with an empty heart.  Prayers do little to fill the void when someone is not long on this Earth.  Comfort is empty.  It's a chapter that's winding down to it's end. 

I ride the elevator alone.  It's not for us to know when.