When I wake up the next morning, I'm still pretty groggy. As much as I hate to admit it, I realize that I'm going to have to get some real sleep soon. I manage to stay at Harry's bedside until about dinner time, but I am easily convinced to leave the hospital for the night to go home with Mrs. Styles to sleep. She hasn't left Harry's room much either, so we're both pretty exhausted.

Mrs. Styles had asked her husband to relieve her, and my dad will be staying to watch over Harry as well.

I set my ringer on high and tell my dad, "Please call me if he needs anything, okay?" He gives me hug and assures me that he and Dr. Styles will take good care of Harry.

It only takes about ten minutes for us to reach the Styles' gorgeous old colonial home. We enter the foyer and Mrs. Styles immediately leads me up the staircase. I'm too tired to be curious about the place, which, at first glance, seems very lovely and inviting. At the end of a long hallway, she opens a door and flips the light switch. She doesn't need to tell me, it's Harry's room.

Classic reds and blues adorn the room. The wallpaper border has a generic sports motif; it's the only evidence that the room once belonged to a little boy. The rest of the room holds a more sophisticated feel. What I notice the most, though, is the scent. It's Harry. I feel an intimate connection with him, yet I know he is still so far away.

"The bathroom is across the hall," she says. "Do you want anything to eat?"

"No, thank you. This is perfect," I give her a small squeeze.

Although I'm about to collapse from exhaustion, I decide to grab a quick shower before turning in. I'm thankful for the warm, cozy bed in the wonderfully fragrant room. The sheets are fresh, but the room smells like him. I only hesitate for a moment before I decide to search through his dresser. I find one of his undershirts and I fall asleep with it in my arms, even though it doesn't hold the same fragrance that his other t-shirt did, the one I took from him the night before he left.

Not even aware of having fallen asleep, I wake up with a jolt and realize that I have slept for 12 straight hours. I want to get back to the hospital as soon as possible, but I'm distracted by a small collection of photos on the bookshelf next to Harry's bed. There is a family photo in which he looks to be about ten years old. He has an awkward haircut and a goofy grin, but I love it. Another photo showcases a sweaty Harry wearing a first place cross-country medal.

My eyes scan the room. I had noticed the trophies the night before, but now I move in closer to read the fine print on dozens of trophies from little league, soccer, cross country, tennis. From before his accident, of course.

I notice another small photo album behind the pictures, so I take it out and lovingly scan through the photos of my husband-to-be. There must be hundreds of pictures of Harry, at various ages, in a variety of sports uniforms that match the trophies.

I am caught off guard by pictures of him when he was 15, 16, 17 years old. They look different somehow and then the obvious strikes me – they were taken before the accident.

No crutches.

Otherwise, he hasn't changed much. He's a little older now, a little more defined, definitely wiser.

I flip toward the back of the book and find some pictures of Harry in the hospital, bandaged and bruised, but all smiles. They must have been taken just before he was transferred into rehab. I wonder if he will have to be in rehab once he wakes up.

Will he be able to walk? Will he have to learn to do everything all over again? What will our life together be like if my husband is confined to a wheelchair? Will he have to cancel his dreams of medical school? Will I be the one who has to work full-time to support him? What if he really can't have children?

The assault of questions on my brain makes me start worrying again. A ball of fear and nausea rises up into my throat. I start to feel the familiar dizziness and buzzing in my ears. I lie back slowly on the bed, close my eyes and take a deep breath.

I know that I will eventually have to process the anxiety-provoking thoughts, but I can't do it right now. Not yet. Right now, I just have to survive.

I take another deep breath, in through my nose, and slowly out through my mouth.

Courage. I choose to face today with courage.

I hear a knock at the door and Mrs. Styles walks in without waiting for an answer. Glad I wasn't changing my clothes.

She gives me a brighter grin than I've ever seen on her face before, and then she says, "I made some breakfast and fresh pot of coffee. Why don't you get dressed and come on down?"

I quickly change and apply a little makeup. I'm glad that I had taken a shower the night before, although my hair is flatter than ever. I decide that I don't care and I rush down the stairs.

The kitchen and breakfast nook are warm and inviting, decorated in bright yellows and delicate blues. Mrs. Styles has set the table and my steaming breakfast is waiting. About half-way through the meal, she somewhat shyly says, "I know you're eager to get back to the hospital, but I thought we could go shopping first. Just for an hour or two."

I look at her and I'm not quite sure what to say. I don't want to hurt her feelings, I'm not quite sure what I would buy. I don't care about anything but being with Harry.

"I thought I could take you to look at wedding dresses. I...I know you will want your mom to help you pick one out, but I thought we could just look for a bit. I think it would be fun."

I can't believe what she has just said. My eyes are tearing up and I smile, "Of course, that would be great." I wipe a few tears away. "Thank you. That means a lot to me. I still feel a bit guilty that we deceived you about the engagement."

Mrs. Styles hastily gets up and hugs my head to her bosom. "You are so good for Harry. You make him incredibly happy. He can't do this without you."

And I can't do this without him, I think. I swallow another lump of fear.

Gemma joins us at the bridal boutique. Perusing wedding attire is an enjoyable diversion; it takes our minds off of the hospital drama for a while. But I soon become overwhelmed by the number of choices. So. Many. Dresses. I want to say that I'm finished after seeing about 50 dresses and only trying two or three of them. Putting on a bridal gown is nothing like throwing on a blouse at my favorite boutique. It's quite the ordeal, and requires the assistance of the sales attendant, as well as my mother-in-law-to-be.

I begin to tire very quickly and I'm about to suggest that I've had enough for today, when the attendant brings out one more selection. She says, "I think this is the perfect style for you." She convinces me to try this one last dress.

It takes my breath away. Even with my flat hair and weary eyes, it is stunning. I close my eyes and I can see myself standing next to Harry at the altar. Gemma and her mom agree that the style suits me perfectly. It is elegant and simple, not at all ostentatious. They add that the creamy color will work nicely with my complexion.

The attendant briefly shows me a line of bridesmaid dresses that would complement my gown. I nod and tell her that I will have to come back another time to look at them in more detail. And we put the wedding dress on hold.

On the way back to the hospital, I find that my brain resumes the train of thought that had accosted me earlier in the day. What if the surgery caused further damage to his spine? What will our life be like if he's in a wheelchair?

I have to think through the possibilities. Of course, any disability, existing or further disability,  will not affect my devotion to Harry. I know that much.

A wheelchair probably won't mean that medical school is out of the question, but it would definitely be more of a challenge. However, If medical school doesn't work out, Harry will be heartbroken. He's certainly intelligent enough to make a successful career out of his skills. If he doesn't have any brain damage. I immediately push the idea of brain damage out of my own brain for the time being. I can't let fear overwhelm me.

Harry has the ambition to be successful, for sure. He wants to provide for me, for our family. I'm sure it will be frustrating for him if he can't do that the way that he wants to. Harry will follow his heart to the best of his ability. I will follow mine. My heart won't be changed by Harry's health, nor will be my commitment to him. My heart is with Harry, one hundred percent.

Once we're back at the hospital, I rush into the room and my heart falters a little because he looks exactly the same as he did when I left him yesterday. In the excitement of choosing a wedding dress, Harry had awakened in my mind and was enthusiastically helping me to plan the wedding. I try not to let my disappointment show too much and eagerly inform him that I have found a wedding dress.

"It's perfect! It will knock your socks off," I assure him. "I bet you thought I had left for good. Not a chance, mister. You're stuck with me now!" I swear I see the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but I chalk it up to my own exhaustion.

I also think that I catch a small smile playing on Dr. Styles' face.

As evening approaches, I plug in the CD player that I brought from Harry's room and I pop in some music. I turn the volume down low and snuggle up next to Harry again. I move his arm gently to drape it over my shoulder and then I bury my face in his side.

Fear is waiting to overtake me. I decide that I will indulge the fear, just for a little while. I feel like I can face anything with Harry by my side. My anxiety begins to flow freely in the form of tears and sobs. I quietly whisper, "Please wake up, Harry. Please." My dad rubs my shoulders and strokes my hair until I cry myself to sleep.

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