I Pretty Much Always Cry

Doctor appointments.
Sitting across from yet another someone who knows nothing about us,
probably won’t remember us,
and is giving us information for decisions that could impact the rest of our lives.
A broad desk with us on one side, and a doctor or a practitioner or a counselor or a specialist on the other side surrounded by papers and data and typical if not predictable inspirational phrases scattered here and there on small cork boards, sticky notes, dusty framed prints … I wonder if they remember the quotes are there.
Sometimes they make eye contact with us and sometimes not so much.
Sometimes they connect with us like we are real people with real feelings and sometimes they regurgitate words and I watch those words float out of their mouth, pass their lips, many of them falling away, maybe landing on the floor maybe not, I can’t keep track.

I am tuned in to my husband’s breathing.
In my peripheral vision, I watch the rise and fall of his chest and I am squeezing his hand or resting my hand on his leg or his back, not wanting to not be touching him for even a second.

Sometimes some of it makes sense and sometimes we just can’t believe this is where we are.

I pretty much always cry at some point before we rise from our chairs, manage a sincere but often confused “thank you” and make our exit out into a new part of the journey.
Our feet move us along until we get to the car:
Steps that feel different, every time.
Love that feels clearer,
every time.