4 a.m.

It's 4 a.m. and I'm trying to figure out why I am awake. It takes a minute. But it hits me suddenly.

Yes 4 a.m., I remember you. I remember the pain, intense and constant. I refused meds, because I believed I needed to be punished, because somehow it was my fault.

4 a.m., you came and I paged a nurse. The nurse who's only patient was me. The nurse who worryingly sat outside my door because I wanted to be alone, the nurse who checked in more than needed because I was alone.

4 a.m., you didn't give much warning. Suddenly, I wasn't so strong. Suddenly I panicked. Suddenly all I wanted was to be asleep, to ignore this nightmare.

4 a.m. plus a few, you were a time that would not be slowed. The nurse stepped out to call the doctor and I was alone. So frighteningly alone.

And then, suddenly, I wasn't. But I was. But this was worse.

4 a.m., I didn't think my heart could break anymore. It did. I sat still, in shock, with the fragments of my heart. That dear nurse ran back in and sat there, holding me, (for I must not move from fear of infection) sobbing, and somehow it opened the floodgates.

4 a.m., the flurry of activity in you second half was quiet. No other noise filled the air but that of the few professionals, for I had the entire floor to myself. I finally asked for meds so that I could stop feeling, this pain was so much worse, but I didn't receive them until 5, so 4, I remember you best. You and your glaring red numbers on the wall.



4 a.m., I sit here now, and two years have washed over you. The minutes don't stand out quite like they did last year. The pain, not quite as sharp. My arms are filled, not with replacement, but with love. Yet you still sting with a heavy weight. I have not forgotten you. I am grateful for you, for your quiet hour, yet obviously I still have healing, for I am bitter with you. On any other day we greet each other as friends, but today we are the uncomfortable in-laws sitting together at a party and I know that I at least do not want to be here. So I have passed the time airing out the closet, bringing up the past. And now, 5 comes to relieve you.

Goodbye 4am, until next year.