We end up spending close to three weeks together in the hospital. After a few days, when she’s feeling a bit better, she resumes talking nonstop, until a doctor or nurse enters the room; then she clams up completely. Her surgeon says, “I’ll bet she’s never quiet at home. You probably just brought her here to get a little peace and quiet.” He doesn’t know how much she talks here, too.

To maintain my sanity, I talk to myself even more than usual. Any subject will do. I tell myself how to implement the ideas in a shiur I heard; about how, in spite of my need for peace and quiet, Hashem has blessed me with a large family; about how, if I wrote with as little thought as Naomi talks, then askefrew yowa kyilqeefwa zhebunk.

Usually, Naomi is so wrapped up in what she’s saying that she doesn’t pay much attention to me, either, except when she checks to see if I’m listening. But now she notices what she’d never noticed before — that I talk to myself.

“I don’t like to talk to people unless they’ll be interested,” I say pointedly, but she doesn’t get the hint.

To pass the endless hours, we visit every ward, amazed at how many things can go wrong in a human body. We play with the free makeup in the gift shop, examine all the vending machines, read all the notices, use all the craft supplies in the playroom, admire all the fish tanks, and make repeated attempts to see the newborns. Naomi provides play-by-play commentary on everything: the colors of the fish, the price of the chips, the shape of the nurse’s earrings. I nod and “mm-hmm” on autopilot.

Listening to Naomi is like reading the terms and conditions of a website — I have no idea what she’s saying, but I agree anyhow.

But then I notice how often she stops to see if I’m listening. It occurs to me that she doesn’t want to know if what she’s saying matters to me, but to know that she matters to me. That every time she says, “Guess what I just thought of,” she’s inviting me to connect with her. Her chatter is how she tethers herself to me, proving to herself that what fills her head has a place in mine.

That’s when I realize: If I ignore the “little stuff” now, she won’t trust me with the “big stuff” later. To her, there’s no “little stuff,” no sense that in ten years, what she talks about will be more important. To her, it’s all big, because it’s all hers.

After 19 days of intense togetherness, Naomi is discharged with instructions to take it easy for a week. But as soon as we get home, she asks, “Can I play with Sara?” I just smile with relief and wave goodbye.

And in the miraculous hush that follows, I realize I’m grateful to know that when she comes back, she’ll still want to tell me everything.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 972)