She blinked in and out of consciousness; the lights were bright, too bright, when her eyes opened, but the dark scared her. Still… she drifted. Once, when she half-woke, he and the doctor were standing over her prone body, discussing her recovery process. The conversation floated in and out of her ears, with snippets of words here or there, words like “weak” and “dangerous” and “caution;” Words that served to do little more than frighten her back into the blackness of unconsciousness. Once, she thought she felt his hand against her cheek, though it might have been a dream.
When she was well enough to leave the hospital, she spent six weeks on pseudo-bedrest, flitting between the bed, the sofa, physical therapy appointments, and long, steamy baths that left her feeling better each time she stepped out of them. He was attentive and concerned, but quiet, and she hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts about the operation. He washed her hair during her baths, and escorted her to physical therapy. He cooked her meals for her, and snuggled close, but not too close or hard, to her in the evenings. They watched television shows together, though nothing too funny, or she would laugh and upset the stitches. He read her to sleep some nights, and others, she would drift quickly in the early evenings and be out until well past dawn the next day. Time passed, quick and slow and all at once. Continue reading