Care

Lethargic and woozy, waiting for this cold, I think it is, to finish wreaking its damage and move on, I cuddle under the covers, drink cider, swallow green pills ('Which will put you to sleep'), try to read, fail to focus, drop off again.

Slowly I feel the tide of battle turning. I'm able to stand, though unsteadily, even dress. Now soup and English muffins, now red pills ('Which will keep you awake.') which allow me to read.

What I first noticed a few days ago in my my head and throat, having gone full-somatic with chills and muscle weakness, has returned to my head, expressed in yucky yellow phlegm. Some joints are stiff and I move with studied care. I enjoy being indolen

Through all this, you've been just the nurse I've needed. You recognized that something was going on, urged me to call in sick (which I never do), brought me things to drink and eat and swallow, called me from downstairs to see if I wanted anything, stayed long enough to assure me I was not forgotten, but not too long, updated your prescriptions as I arose, and through it all encouraged and comforted me, kissing me where there was no possibility of contagion.

I would have survived alone and unassisted, but your ministrations eased and accelerated the process. But it was you caring that made the difference. You created the healing space wherein I could weather the tumult.

We're older now and times of mutual care are going to be more frequent. Both of us have been afraid of this, afraid of how they will change our lives and stress (read: expose) aspects of our relationship. But this episode, relatively painless, may be more the norm, at least for the next few years, and it draws us, I think, closer together. At least, I'm grateful for your positivity, your prescriptions, and not least, your presence.