[private, time stamped 5:42 am]
It doesn't matter if I type. Gael won't wake up - he'll just stay curled like that on his side, IV'd hand cradled carefully against his chest. I hate hospitals - one of my earliest memories is of my dad holding me in one when my mother died, then sitting me down in an ugly, orange plastic chair with my sister and leaving us there for...well. It felt like hours. Days.
We've been in the hospital for two days now, five more to go. I found a private cancer research foundation in LA with a discreet (if insanely expensive) treatment facility. We have a private room, and they've given me permission to sleep curled up tight next to him at night on the double bed. I just have to mind the IVs, which isn't hard. I don't sleep, after all. They come in every two hours to check his vitals - I always try and manage a weak smile for the night nurse. Sometimes I slide out and go to the nurses' station and chat with them, sharing a cup of bad coffee. One of them remembers watching us on 'Y Abuelo y Yo' with her mama every day after she came home from high school. I think she had a crush on Gael - everyone did, after all. I am grateful that money can buy tolerance - no one here tries to separate me from him. They understand a little of what we are to each other. It makes it marginally easier.
God, who am I kidding? This is terrifying. They're doing things to him that make him weak and sick, injecting poison into him to fight the death creeping through his cells. He is so strong that it shames me every time I go hide in the bathroom and cry. Jose and Patricia will be here in a few hours. I imagine they'll send me off to shower and shave and maybe go to dance class. I know I *should* go exercise - if I keep up like this I'll look like a wraith at the Havana Nights premieres, and my publicist and the studio will crucify me. On the up side, though, I haven't weighed so little since they made me into a skeleton for Frida.
Why the fuck am I rambling on about that? Maybe I should really try to get some sleep.