It was unwise. He is going to be relying on these pesky folks who love Henry for financial and emotional support because Henry's recovery is going to be slow and arduous and expensive. Also, it's not how Henry would want his friends to be treated.
On the other hand, I know Reg is exhausted and scared. The news out of Miami hasn't been good. Except for angry outbursts, Henry has become uncommunicative and now he's battling a lung infection. I remain hopeful because the hospital staff doesn't seem alarmed. Apparently these bumps in the road are to be expected in the treatment of traumatic brain injury. Financial realities demand that Reg leave Henry's side and return to Key West and work. Since he tends bar, it must be so hard for him to deal with the public when his heart is breaking. I get it.
Still, Henry is my dear friend. I love him. I am scared that he won't recover completely, that he'll be different somehow and lost to me. It's possible that he won't even know me at all. It would be nice if I could ask specific questions about his condition and care.
But I cannot. Reg tore a strip out of me more than a week ago, and I have ceased real-time contact. I have since used the USPS to send three notes -- one with a Visa gift card, one with a CVS gift card, one with a Shell gift card -- because I know he needs the help and because I know Henry would want me to keep the lines of communication open.
But I must protect myself. I can't let Reg hurt my feelings. I still have to function. I still have to go to work and live my life ... even though Henry is the first thing I think of every morning. I still can't believe this really happened, but it has. Every day, it's still true.
So when Reg opens my notes -- if he opens my notes -- he can respond by cursing me for my intrusiveness and I'll never know. And it made me feel better to learn today that he's mad at the world, not just me.
