“Lisa,” I yelled as I toweled dry, fresh from the shower. “Coming,” came the reply from the living room. I lay on the bed, the towel beneath me. The ceiling fan cut the light and tossed it against the wall in small pieces; light, dark, light, dark, like the room had a heartbeat. Lisa had the bandages and ointment. She donned gloves. Her gentle hands, guided by loving eyes, cleaned around the feeding tube, and then placed gauze around it. This was our daily ritual. “Love ya,” I said. I should have said “You’re saving my life,” because she was.
David Godin used to write instructions, procedures, and emails. Now retired, he took a memoir writing class and is learning. INFJ-A, Esophageal Cancer Survivor.