You're My Wife. You're My Life.

In early August I stood in the Apple Store across from The Plaza Hotel buying AirPods for my husband. It was hot and humid outside; the store was busy, a tourist attraction with abundant air conditioning. I was wearing shorts and an old Batman T-shirt that used to be his and thought I was doing fine until I didn’t feel like myself at all.

I floated above my body, watching a woman who looked exactly like me swipe a credit card and thinking, almost clinically, “that woman sure is going through it.” The salesperson asked whether I wanted the AirPods engraved; I nearly laughed at what I might have chosen.

My husband, Jonathan, had checked himself into the psychiatric unit two days earlier, terrified of what he might do if he stayed at home. On that ward anything that could be used to harm someone is forbidden, and wireless headphones weren’t a luxury but the only form of privacy available — a small island of quiet inside the storm of his mind.

airpods, apple store, plaza hotel, psychiatric unit, psychiatric ward, mental health, hospitalization, wireless headphones, privacy, husband