38.

We are supposed to be in Rapid City today.

Wayne is supposed to be celebrating his 38th birthday with smiles, and hugs, and presents.

He is supposed to be celebrated. To feel like being celebrated.

But that isn't how it is happening.

Yesterday he was in the hospital here in Denver.

A fever, dehydration, and total nausea had his Oncologist wanting to admit him to stay there.

But he wanted his own bed. 

His pillow.

The smells and comforts of home.

His kids.

He wanted to come home.

My kids were split between two girlfriends (to whom I will always be thankful for)

so that I could get to the hospital.

And I took him home.

In the meantime, his parents raced down from Rapid City to be with him. With us.

They are here now.

His Dad, unlike me, is able to get Wayne to eat.

His Dad brings a silent strength to the house and it instantly eases Wayne.

His Mom scoops the kids up, holding them tight, not as a substitute to Wayne, but as close as it gets to Wayne for her. She loves on them and plays with them. And they her.

And Wayne.

He turns 38 today.

I have known him for more of his life than I haven't known him.

And today he didn't have the strength to open his cards or presents.

Today he walked out the door, back to the hospital, with his Dad.

And the candle ... that he did manage to blow out ... still sits on the table.

We hope he is better this afternoon, and that he can let us celebrate him.

But if can't, we know there is tomorrow.

And we are all holding out for a better tomorrow.