Cold and tired

I'm not sure how I should be feeling right now. I feel like maybe I ought to be upset or heavy-hearted. Instead, I'm just tired. Maybe that's a coping technique; I don't know. I went down to the hospital tonight to see William. I had been there in the morning, and he was moving a bit and was warm to the touch. I was planning on going back down there to read Beowulf to him. William and I had talked a bit about Beowulf; it was one of his favorite stories. But when I arrived at the hospital, I found that William was doing worse. His skin was pallid and yellow, and he was cool to the touch. It reminded me of touching my mother when she was dead. He wasn't moving anymore. But still the ventilator continued its hideous mockery of human breathing. Inflate, deflate, inflate, deflate, in, out, in, out. And his chest heaving up and down, like his body was pretending to breathe. It's run off me. It doesn't hurt anymore. At least, it doesn't hurt now. At the hospital, I held it together because I wasn't there for me; I was there for William's family. And now, honestly, I'm just too tired to feel hurt. The pain doesn't stab anymore. It just drags at me, like gravity, pulling me down. Yesterday I cried. Today I am cold. Am I cold? What does this mean? Have I done something wrong that I am not feeling anything? Or is it just too much, and so I shunt it to the side? Or is it a special grace from God? I don't know. I'm tired, but I think that I will be able to sleep well. So, perhaps I should. After all, there's still much to be done. My work isn't over. And tomorrow, William may be dead.