The Boy in The Plastic Bubble

So last night my husband could not get to sleep. He rolled over, he talked, he chatted, he bumped. I had just gotten in bed, a book in my hand affixed to it my brand new booklight, courtesy of Ellie and my birthday.

The beacon was shining at midpoint of a not very interesting Dick Francis novel and my husband persisted.

"How was today? Did you go to a playdate? Are you going to see Jess's baby?"

An inordinate interest he had, and expressed, in the dark hours of night. To each query I'd place the book down, turn to answer then pick it up again. I was Carol Brady to his aggrieved Ricky Ricardo.

He continued. Finally I sighed: "Honey, do you need me to talk you to sleep?"

I don't think he can sleep ,truly, without the daily chatter of my life washing over him. "What's the matter?"

"I don't know. i feel bad. I feel like I don't help you enough"
He doesn't, but it's not really the time to tell him.
"You're just bummed about the rain. Everyone's getting blue" I said. "It's fine. When the sun is shining and the house stuff is finished, it'll all feel better. you're a great husband and the perfect dad. You help a lot jut by being the way you are"

"Tell me one of your Momtrigue stories" he teased mimicking Ellie at bedtime. "Chrysanthemum. Mommy Mad" she asks nightly.

"Tell me the one about the big bad mommy and how the other mommy rescued you" I laughed and had him roll over. With my big spoon to his little. I regaled him with inanities until I heard his breathing start to slow. And just, just as we were both about to drift off he said, into the very quiet night:

"Oh by the way, remember the woman at work who got laid off then tried to kill herself? Well she committed suicide."

and there it was.

I bitch about my husband in the smallest ways. He fumbles around at night like a dog chasing his tail unable to find the simplest of kitchen items, he's tired early, we wish we laughed more. I have my share of plate throwing moments, but never do they launch and yet he is infinately patient with my inability to move forward - on cooking, on people at times and with my groundhog day struggles, making the same mistake over and over. So I forget sometimes that my gentle professor, my absent minded husband, still retains the heart of the small wondrous child reflected his mothers stories and that something like this, the tragedy of a stranger, can break his heart and shatter his bubble. I forget sometimes, in my microcosm, that my husband had his share of tragedies, and heartaches too and that for him, for a woman to take her own life, hurts him in ways that he can't articulate.

We fell asleep sad last night. Me because she was somebody's daughter, and him because she was somebody.