I wish I could say this in person, but they won’t let me see you. Not me. Not the kids. Instead,
they told me to write you a short note for the nurse to read to you, so please try and imagine it’s
me here with you right now, holding your hand. Focus. Pretend. Because I really need you to
hear me when I say you need to fight. You need to fight to conquer this sickness because the
kids and I don’t know what we would do without you. Rachel isn’t sleeping and Jack gets angry
at the smallest things and I’m trying to teach them math and reading at the kitchen table to
distract them from missing you and being frightened for you but all I want to do is hide in the
bathroom and cry. They’ve been telling me that my jokes aren’t as funny as yours and I can’t
throw a baseball like you and now there’s a spider that’s been stuck under a jam jar in the
basement that the kids are insisting that only you can take outside because that’s your job and not
mine, and if you don’t get better and come home soon then the spider will likely die. Please have
courage and fight. And if you’ve given up fighting for yourself then please, fight for me, fight for
the kids, because we miss you and we love you and we want you to be home with us, soon.
(c) Elvira Berezowsky, 2020
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