Hello, nurse.

2 a.m. Monday morning. Matt's passed out on the bed, still writhing rather violently. I have not been in this situation before. I have a washcloth in one hand and Neosporin in the other. He's bloody and moaning; I'm wondering if I should call an ambulance. Before he passed out, he insisted he was okay, but I think the adrenaline is running out and the pain is starting to set in. I bite my lip, clean his wounds, cover him with two blankets ... and wonder, What the heck just happened here?

In short: He drank too much -- especially for a guy who, you know, doesn't eat. He knows he's weak, complains that his body doesn't heal itself like it should anymore. All hell breaks loose when I try to get him to come inside. He looks absolutely hunted, barefoot and running through the woods. Paul and I debate what to do: Do we drive around and look for him, or wait for him to come back? We split up and go different directions. At one point, I fall and twist my knee. I scream, and Paul comes running, tearing up the bottom of his feet on some broken glass. What a pair we are.

Tired and worried, I call Matt's cell phone. He sounds tiny and scared. I ask him where he is; he tells me he doesn't know. We wrangle over landmarks -- not an easy task tracking down somebody who's incoherent -- and I finally drive over and pick him up. Then I slowly drive home, undress him and get him cleaned up, pretend like I know what I'm doing. He keeps yelling, "It hurts," but can't point to what hurts. I do my best to figure it out.

This morning, I wake him up and ask how he's doing. He can't move his wrist and his nose is swollen. Paul says it looks broken. He calls an orthopedist friend and asks about his wrist. She fears it's broken, too; he grimaces. I get ready for work while he ices it, then Paul drives him to the free clinic across town. He promises he'll call when he gets the x-rays back.

At one point last night -- in between the ranting about "empirical knowledge" and mumbling about the nice faeries -- Matt sat upright in bed, looked me straight in the eye, and asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" I asked him.

"Why do you take care of me?" I shushed him with a sigh and told him I love him. Then I tucked him back in, made sure his breathing was steady, turned out the light and went to bed. I didn't have a good answer. A tiger cannot change its stripes ... and even if I underwent tiger plastic surgery, I'd still act like a tiger. I cannot escape who I am.

In general, Paul's quick to acknowledge my self-destructive tendencies, although last night he told me I wasn't as bad as Mattie. And yet, I know Paul's always going to be there. I know that when I can't -- or won't -- take care of myself, I've got someone who'll do it for me without complaining, who'll carry my load as his own. It's my saving grace when I feel worthless. If he loves me, I can try to love me, too. And I can pass it on, because it'll come back to me when I need it most.

I hope Matt realizes -- well, heck, he's going to read this -- Mattie, I hope you realize that I'm here for you no matter what. I don't care how far you run ... the door will be unlocked whenever you're ready to come home. Paul and I will be here for you. It's easy for me to clean those cuts and scrapes (especially when you're passed out), but I also want to get a handle on the emotional wounds. I know you trust me, but I'm not going to push. I'm ready when you want to talk. And I'll love you no matter what you have to say. That's what friends do.

It's been a long night. I feel tired and beaten. I sure as hell better get a hug for this -- broken wrist or not. ;)

[EDIT: 1:35 p.m. -- Two x-rays. One fracture. I'd kick his butt for being an idiot ... but I think he's already doing a decent job of that himself. Idiot.]