Yesterday was my wife's 39th birthday. Three days ago she was in a horrific car accident. As she drove through an intersection she was broadsided by a red light runner doing about 80 mph in a 35 mph zone. The only thing that probably saved her life was that she was hit on the passenger side. If she'd been hit driver's side, I can't even go there.

Her left leg is broken in two places, her arm is broken at the wrist, a rib is cracked, several fingers are broken, as well as her nose. Last night they removed her spleen and sometime this weekend they will probably operate on her leg. The miracle in all this is that she didn't wind up with a head injury. Her car had side impact air bags that probably saved her brain from being scrambled.

She's in ICU and will probably be here for a while. The first night she was listed as critical, but now the nurses are telling me she's stable. She'd be in a lot pain pain but they're keeping her heavily medicated, so I'm not 100% sure how much she's aware of, but when I talk to her and hold her right hand, she squeezes it if I ask her to. I'm told that's good. If she hears me and is aware enough to respond, then she's hanging in there no matter how much pain is seeping past the drugs.

Her father has spent most of his time here at the hospital with me, but he's gone home to spend the night with my kids. I know I have to go home to see them soon, but I can't bring myself to leave the hospital. Because what if? Yet I know my kids need to see me. They need to ask the questions they'll only ask me and they need to be able to break down with their father and not just Dack and Theresa, or even their grandfather.

A few days ago I did one of those Facebook memes and one of the question was "When was the last time you cried?" My answer was last year, when my father died. But right now I'm fighting them all the time, and it's so obvious that when I talked to my oldest son on the phone earlier he came right out and told me it was all right to cry.

He says he's keeping his brother and sister occupied and has told them their Mom will be all right but that it might take a while. That isn't his job, it's mine. Yet I still can't peel myself up to go home, because if I do and something happens to her, I don't think I could take it. They can't come here to see her yet. Eldest Son could take the sight of her like this but the younger two can't. She doesn't look like Mom and won't for a while.

When Eldest Son was just a baby, I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Toxic Shock. I don't know how she managed it but when I was awake she was there. She says she went home, but every memory I have is of her by my bed. When I couldn't eat, she fed me. When the skin was falling off the bottoms of my feet and I needed distraction from the pain she spent hours rubbing my back and my chest. She read to me until she was hoarse, and when I needed social contact she helped me use my laptop to connect with online friends and she typed for me.

She has been there in every one of my darkest moments guiding me through them, and she's the reason for every one of my brightest moments. If I leave here now it feels like betrayal. If I don't go home and be with our kids, it feels like betrayal.

All of that sounds selfish. But it's after midnight and I've been up for two days and since we just started this blog few people are ever going to see it, so I'm going to be selfish.

Someday she'll sift through the archives and see this. And when you do, Char, please don't be angry that I didn't do what I know you would want me to do. I know you would want me to head home and comfort the kids, but right now all I can do is sit here and watch you breathe, because every breath you take means that you'll probably take one more, and if I see the next breath then I can go on for another one, too. It doesn't have to make any sense. I'm sitting in the corner watching you sleep, and the only thing holding me together is watching you breathe.