An Armadillo in the Snow

Outside the window snow is falling

covering the cars in the parking lot.

Someone has made a trail across the walkway

from their car to the hospital entrance

black marks on the pure white sheet.

I wondered how I would dig out my car

when I could go home for a break.

I didn't think to put a shovel or window scraper

in the trunk.

I packed some overnight clothes,

gave the cats extra food,

and left in early morning before the storm hit

so I could be in her room if she woke up scared and displaced.

The shift change nurses would tell me about her night.

I was sitting on the couch that doubled as a bed

my body curled tight

as if forming a ball with my limbs 

like the armor of an armadillo

would protect me from the emotional wreckage.

Bombshell after bombshell

dropped each time another doctor came through the door.

The snow kept falling

and I stared past the window panes

a prisoner in her room, chained to the couch

and paralyzed by the thoughts swirling in my head.

Would she wake up

and tell me it was all a bad dream?

The day faded into night and I had not left my window perch.

The lights from the parking area bounced off the snow

glistening and sparkling

turning the mass of entrenched cars into an ersatz fantasy world.

I tried to sleep but machines beeped every 30 seconds

warning of a twisted IV line or a changing blood pressure

waking me from my nightmare again and again.

I closed my eyes and was back in it.

It would never end.