—
The following Monday, Saylor sleeps well past noon. When I ask her if she is all right, she smiles that sleepy smile I love so much and just tells me she’s tired. It’s enough to worry me and I call Dr. Zi, who offers no support.
“Honestly, Dirk, I don’t know what to say. She handled the treatments with fewer problems than I anticipated, and her miraculous recovery still has me confused. At this point, I don’t know what to expect. It seems everything that happens is just so unpredictable. My advice is just to let her rest.”
I promise the doctor that I will keep him informed and go back to lay with Saylor. The past week has been amazing. Mostly, we’ve just laid around the house and done nothing. We haven’t made love again, but she asks me to hold her a lot, so I do.
I’m still processing my mental breakdown from our last episode of lovemaking. I would do it all over again if she asks, but it doesn’t bother me that she hasn’t. I just know that if she does, I can’t let myself get that involved again.
It’s well after two when Saylor decides she is hungry and wants to get up. She’s not sluggish and doesn’t complain about any pain or discomfort. She’s perfectly fine. But it’s barely nine o’clock when she starts nodding off on the couch. When I ask her if she wants to go to bed, she says no and forces a smile to assure me she is awake. Ten minutes later, she is out so I carry her to bed and she’s too deep in sleep to protest.
Tuesday, Saylor tells me that she feels weak, and that she struggles to get her limbs moving to do what her brain tells them to. Losing her mobility wasn’t supposed to happen until later, but she shows no sign of any other problems. I call Dr. Zi again and this time he offers something that is somewhat useful, but not what I want to hear.
“I can’t give a full diagnosis without examining her, but if you want my professional opinion I’ll give it to you. The only conclusion I can come up with is that another tumor has formed on a different part of her brain. That part being her parietal lobe, which affects her movement. Now, this is all in theory. If she wants to come in, I’ll take a look and give you a better analysis.”
I tell the doctor that I’m sure she doesn’t want that, but I assure him I’ll mention it. When I hang up, Saylor is standing behind me, leaning on the wall for support.
“I’m not going back,” she says. Her movements might be weak, but her voice is strong and adamant. So I don’t argue, I just tell her what she wants to hear.
“Whatever you want.”
27
“I WANT TO have a sleepover Friday,” Saylor tells me Wednesday night. I ask her who all she wants to come and her answer is simple.
“Everyone.” I’m guessing everyone is Donnawayne, Jeffery, Rookie, Carrie, Shady, and me. When I ask her to confirm this, she says yes. So I call them all and they assure me they will be here Friday afternoon. My job is to make sure there is plenty of food and clean towels in the bathroom. I can do that.
Saylor’s ability to walk has been diminished to only a few steps every day. And those have to be assisted. I haven’t let her out of my sight for fear of her falling.
Her arm movement is better, but after dropping and shattering several glasses, she demanded I get her some cups with lids. Sometimes she gets frustrated at herself. Sometimes we make jokes about it and laugh. But I’ve yet to see it sadden her or get her down. She seems to have a solution to everything. An electric scooter inside the house is where I drew the line. Not that I minded her having it, I just didn’t want her to break her neck.
No one has been informed of Saylor’s current issues, and I wonder if I should tell them without her knowing. But she can still read my thoughts, so she answers my unspoken question.
“You can call Shady and let him know about me. Tell him to tell the others. I’m sure Donnawayne and Jeffery are gonna fuckin’ lose it.” It still makes me smile when I hear her cuss, but not as much as it does to call Shady and tell him he has to break the news to the drama queens.
Saylor’s hair is starting to grow back. It’s just a little blond fuzz on top of her head, but it’s there. When I asked her if she wanted me to shave her legs, a peaceful look came over her face and she smiled.
“There’s not any hair on my legs.” Because I’m an insensitive idiot, not only do I ask why, but I do it in a condescending way as if the thought of her not having hair on her legs was ridiculous. I’m kicking myself, but Saylor is unaffected. She just laughs and shakes her head. Then gives me an explanation that I wasn’t expecting.
“Because I prayed that it wouldn’t.”
—
It’s finally Friday, and although there is no place I want to be than in Saylor’s company, I can’t help but feel a little excited about having some male company.