It is an abhorrent thing, this incarceration of your vulnerability, profoundly cruel in the way you were beaten to your knees, blithely unaware it was a battle lost for your health and wellbeing. It was dreadful to witness your vigour evaporate, sapped by a merciless agent of discontinuity, sold into the slavery of a sickness that debilitates your will from within.
I am shocked, too, at my smallness in the face of it, cowed by the enormity beyond, which threatens the core of our being as one. And seeing you pale and traumatised in a hospital bed, whispering in a tiny, distant voice, the fire in your eyes a flicker where it blazed before, I am unashamedly terrified.
And yet you inspire me with your selflessness; though sorely ill you strive to ease my ragged sense of right and wrong which leaves me devastated. But I can think clearly, it is me who should be abed in the hospital ward instead of you. It is I who should shield you from the pain and uncertainty. Truly, I should be suffering there instead of you.