[ WP ] `` They were a match made in heaven , but had to go to hell to sign the paperwork . ''

Mitzy and Don take shifts standing vigil outside of Greg's hospital room. They are watching for me. If I approach the room, they will call the hospital staff, who will call security, and I will be roughly escorted out. I know this because they have done this to me five times now. I have been informed that the next time it happens I will be charged with criminal trespassing. 
 
 Every time I have been escorted from the premises, I have stated my case as calmly and as rationally as is possible when your husband is dying of late-stage leukemia and you are being prevented from seeing him. I reiterate: `` He is my husband. I am married to him. I am legally married to him and I have a right to see him.'' 
 
 As it turns out, in the state of Georgia, as of this date in 2007, I do not have a right to see him. 
 
 I know this because I have been told so, repeatedly, by Mitzy and Don, and hospital staff, and security, and a number of attorneys in the tri-county area who I have phoned. 
 
 Mitzy is all smiles when I try to enter Greg's room. Her rejection of my right to see my dying husband is cast in the charming lilts of southern hospitality. She offers to take me to the hospital cafeteria and have sweet tea with me and discuss God and pray for Greg. A real heart-to-heart. She will even connect me to a therapist in Atlanta who was doing wonders with Greg, when he was a teenager, before college corrupted him. 
 
 When I try to force my way past her, there is Don, who is not so hospitable. He is 65, but 6'5'', and probably something like 650 pounds, all muscle. He is not shy about throwing that weight around, when it comes to keeping me out of Greg's room, and I regret never having worked out regularly. 
 
 I holler as he wrenches my arm behind my back and forces me to the ground: `` Please, for the love of God. I love him. I just want to say goodbye.'' 
 
 I just want to say goodbye. 
 
 So now there is this, plan B: a not so charming kid named Jethro. I mean his name is actually Jethro, if you can believe it, and he looks like a Jethro too. Built like an anemic scarecrow and wearing a hooded sweatshirt in August -- may as well be wearing a neon sign that says `` ask me about my track marks.'' 
 
 I need Jethro because everyone on staff at the hospital knows my face and knows to be on watch for me. I need a confederate they do n't recognize. So for the low price of $ 500, Jethro will don some scrubs he has stolen during one of his many ER visits, dose Don and Mitzy's midnight coffees with a sedative, and spirit Greg out of his hospital room. 
 
 At 12:15 AM in a fetid alley adjoining Mercy General, I stand over Greg's gurney, crying like the world is ending, because in some sense it is, and this hick Jethro is the only witness to the last kiss I will ever share with my husband. 
 
 Jethro jabs a needle into Greg's thigh. I can barely manage `` what the f --'' before Greg is awake, fully conscious, gasping from a sudden rush of pain and adrenaline. 
 
 `` Epi,'' Jethro says, and wipes his nose with the back of his palm. His skittish eyes are searching everywhere for nothing. `` Thought you might'n wan na say somethin'. He'll be fine.'' 
 
 `` Are you okay?'' I say, cradling Greg's face. His eyes bulge, his jaw sets, and he nods. He brings his breathing back under control. 
 
 `` -- the fuck am I?'' he breathes. 
 
 `` I had to get you away from those bitches you call your parents.'' 
 
 His eyes roll and he swallows hard, trying to cope with the pain. He looks back at me. `` I told them to let you in if you came. I told them.'' 
 
 `` I know you did.'' 
 
 Jethro is taking this moment to piss against the alley wall. 
 
 `` Who the hell --'' Greg says, noticing Jethro for the first time. 
 
 `` I hired him. He brought you out of your room.'' 
 
 `` Jesus, who did you get mixed up with?'' 
 
 `` Listen,'' I say, `` I do n't have a lot of time. I need to tell you.'' 
 
 I clasp his fingers in mine, but he breaks the grip. His bony hand strokes the cut on my cheek, the deep black bruise there. `` Who beat you?'' 
 
 `` You know who beat me. Don always hated me.'' 
 
 Greg closes his eyes, mortified. I take his hands again. There's nothing to them anymore, none of the strength I used to love. 
 
 `` You're so bald,'' I say, laughing. I rub his head. 
 
 `` It's called chemo. You should try it sometime. Bald is sexy again.'' 
 
 `` Just what a baldy like you would say.'' 
 
 `` The weight loss is incredible, too. I'm never doing Atkins again.'' 
 
 Jethro zips up, loudly. I bow my head and sigh. 
 
 `` I need to tell you,'' I repeat. `` What I said in Boston, I did n't mean it. I did n't mean any of it.'' 
 
 `` I should n't have left,'' he says. 
 
 `` I should n't have let you go. I mean, Christ, we almost died just trying to get there in the first place. We finally got free of this stupid hick town. And I let it all fall to shit. I'm so selfish. I'm so stupid. I'm so --'' 
 
 `` Shut up,'' Greg says. He opens his eyes. Bright teeth and warm smile. `` You always get like this.'' 
 
 `` I love you.'' 
 
 `` I love you, too.'' 
 
 `` Uh,'' Jethro says. I turn. He's pointing down the alley at a police officer who is approaching us, his car parked at the alley's mouth, red-and-blues on. 
 
 Jethro flees. For someone so frail looking, his ability to vault a 10-foot brick wall is impressive. 
 
 I do n't flee. I smile down at Greg. `` I'll see you again,'' I say. 
 
 `` You better. I'll be waiting.''
