No more complaining

We slept until 8 this morning, at which time I rolled out of bed and headed to La Madeleine, a little cafe around the corner from the hospital, to pick up a nonfat, decaf latte for Anna and a coffee for myself. Waiting for the elevator down to the ground floor of the hospital, I ran into a now-familiar face. We've been exchanging brief greetings in passing for the past week, but have yet to actually meet. He's a tall, thin, shy-looking guy, no older than 25, and probably a couple of years younger than that. I introduced myself, and he said his name was Andre. His wife is the unfortunate lady down the hall who's been lying with her feet elevated above her head. I ask how far along she is, and it turns out it's farther than we thought: 28 weeks. "But they want to keep her here until she reaches 34." Damn. Six more weeks, if she's lucky. Suddenly our stay seems infinitely more bearable. Andre continues, "I'm going home to Waco today, and I won't be back until Tuesday." His eyes are aimed at his feet, and I can tell he feels a little ashamed of this admission. I've complained about feeling helpless and useless, but at least I've been able to be at Anna's bedside for the vast majority of her stay. I can't imagine leaving her for an entire day, much less 5. I asked Andre if they had family in town to look in on his wife. He told me no, and my heart sank. The elevator doors opened and we walked toward the cafeteria and the south entrance. I told Andre I'd be happy to look in on her while he's gone, and that he could stop by our room any time he needs anything, but he seems like the kind of guy that doesn't like to ask for help. I told Anna about our encounter, and we both just about cried. We feel very fortunate at the moment, and even more appreciative of all the help, love and attention we've received.