My face was buried in my hands, elbows digging into my knees, my heels bouncing restlessly against the cold hospital floor. As if I could somehow make time move faster. As if my sheer willpower alone could pull Kathleen out of surgery and into my arms.
Frustration radiated off me in waves, thick and suffocating. I could feel it pushing people away, forcing them to keep their distance. No one approached me anymore. No more nurses asking if I needed anything. No more strangers offering sympathetic glances. I had become something to avoid—a storm brewing in the middle of the waiting room, unpredictable and on the verge of destruction.
And I couldn’t blame them.
Because I was a storm. A storm of helplessness, of rage, of absolute, gut-wrenching fear.
I couldn’t handle this. I couldn’t f***
