He entered the room with a look on his face that said: “How is she doing?” He marched to her bedside and carefully looked in on her. He asked questions in a gruff way, almost demanding she responds. His frustration built as he waited for a response from her. He continued to ask until he got an answer.
Calling the nurses he respectfully asked more questions and seemed to be chained to his cell phone, as his children would call him asking how their mom was. He gave them answers and bade them go to work since he had it all under control.
He wondered out loud how he would do this a seventy-seven-year-old man and that and where he would find the time, then sharply turned his attention to his wife once again, lovingly inquiring in his gruff way how she slept or was she hungry, then he would order her breakfast.
When he fed his wife, you could see the respect that was implanted in his soul, a recognized sense of who she once was, not this one or two-word answer that she gave him. He asked her: “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” She didn’t but followed his orders as best she could.
When he was done, he plopped his weary body in his chair staring at me on occasion and not wanting to intrude on his heartache I avoided asking questions. But I could see he wanted to talk but like me felt maybe it was better to not talk. Finally, I surrendered my prerogative to remain silent and asked how it was going.
“She doesn’t know me!” Holding his index finger over his thumb he said: “She has NEVER even this much hurt ANYONE! How unfair is this?”
Sitting quietly he watched the TV hanging from the hospital wall, staring without looking, quietly holding her hand. True love, a good man, she must have been a good woman.
No comments:
Post a Comment