The generator blinked out yesterday. It took John most of the day to get it back up and running again. I'm so proud of him-- how he's adapted and grown. He never complains that his once-soft, nimble surgeon's hands are now callused and caked with dirt and grease. He never talks about the days before, but it's with an air of resignment, not avoidance. John has thoroughly accepted that the world has changed.
Not me. I still hope that someday I'll have a classroom to decorate and a new crop of 4th graders to teach. I want a house, and a yard, and a dog to come home to. A child of our own. A car. A pantry stocked full of food, and a frivolously huge kitchen to prepare it in.
I want the option to drink something besides water tinged with the bitter taste of iodine. I want to be able to throw food out because it's past its expiration date. I miss restaurants, and meals. I miss living, instead of surviving.
Someday, maybe there will be something besides this old lab and the creaky generator and this ancient PC and the smear of blood outside our door.
Maybe, someday.
