I lie in bed, waiting for the overwhelming fatigue of the day to finally settle in my bones and to quiet my racing thoughts. Tossing and turning, I grab the blankets and pull them toward me. The house is unnervingly quiet.

I hear a soft noise like a kitten’s mewl. I shoot up in bed, every sense alerted. I cock my head and listen. There it is again.

The noise, which now is an ethereal humming, fills my head. It shatters the preternatural silence of the house. I jump from the bed and cram my feet into my slippers. 

The hum vibrates through my body. Sensing that its source is somewhere other than the bedroom, I allow myself to be guided by it.

As if in a trance, I walk through the house, flicking lights on in each room. Nothing is out of place. The TV is off—no unearthly glow emanates from it. Every chair, every plant, every book is where I  left it earlier. But still the sing-song sound beckons me.

Totally exhausted, I fall into a chair as it grows louder and steadier.

I close my eyes.

A gentle breeze wakes me. The sound of waves pounding the beach fills the room. I breathe deeply.

 The last few days have  overwhelmed us as my husband faced ruthless tests and relentless prodding by doctors and nurses. His patience seemed to be infinite, even when every move he made wracked his body with pain.

I pull an afghan around my shoulders looking for comfort as I recall the doctor decribe  a torturous treatment plan to defeat the out of control cells that have taken over my husband’s body. His voice is disconnected and clinical.

Those  words hung between us that day, taking on form and substance. But we spoke only of recovery . We promised one another to not allow the thought of defeat to have any place in our lives.

The family room is cool and quiet. The ethereal sound has diminished and in its place is peace.

Dawn will soon color the sky like it has for so many millions days.

Later, I will go to the hospital and bring my husband to our home.

And for an uncertain number of days, we will be together.