That doesn’t change the facts, though.
The facts are that Lena’s disease is progressing. And there is absolutely nothing we can do about it. For me, that means that I’m destined to watch the love of my life slip away from me in the most excruciating way imaginable—little by little, day by day, and with no recourse whatsoever.
I keep a watchful eye on Lena at all times. Periods when I feel like she isn’t really with me are getting more and more frequent. Nights seem to be the worst. For that reason, I never let myself fall into a very deep sleep. My fear is that she will get up in the dark and I won’t hear her. And I’m afraid that if she does, something bad will happen. She’ll hurt herself or need my help. I’m terrified that I won’t be there for her, so I sleep with one eye open at all times.
Tonight, Lena fell asleep on the sofa. She skipped supper altogether, which isn’t like her. Even so, I was hesitant to wake her. I’m okay with letting it go this one time, but if it becomes a habit, I’ll have to consult the doctors. Lena has to eat. For her, for the baby, she has to. I hope this won’t be a trend, but I know if it is, I’ll have no choice but to involve the doctor.
I want Lena to do well on her own for as long as she can. I know that’s what she wants, too. What she needs. Besides that, I’ve read enough about terminal cases such as Lena’s to know there is a point of no return when it comes to their ability to sustain their own life. Having to be fed through a tube is one of those points, and I’m in no hurry for my wife to arrive there.
I carried her to bed and tucked her in around eleven, and I’ve been drifting between wakefulness and sleep ever since. The moment Lena’s weight shifts off the bed, I’m wide awake.
I bolt upright.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine, fine,” she answers, her voice sounding clear and lucid. “Just going in here to get some orders.”
Orders?
I slide out of bed to follow her. My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness, so I have no trouble seeing her as she makes her way down the hall. I also have no trouble seeing her when she stops, glances down at her arms, licks her finger, and begins flipping through papers that aren’t really there. I watch her as she closely studies something, running her finger down the imaginary page. I wonder what she’s seeing. And why. Obviously it’s work-related, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s been a nurse practitioner for most of her adult life. She’s as comfortable in her white lab coat as she is in her pajamas.
“Elevated ammonia levels,” she mutters before tucking the nonexistent papers against her chest and resuming her walk down the hall.
I trail her into the kitchen where Lena pulls out a stool at the island and sits on the edge like I’ve seen her do at work so many times. It seems a habit that many medical personnel adopt—to perch right on the edge of those black vinyl stools that can be found in every emergency room in the country. The ones that roll. Maybe it’s so they can get up quickly. Or maybe it’s because the stools themselves aren’t very stable. I don’t know the why of it; I only know I’ve seen many of them do it.
Lena sets her unseen papers on the granite in front of her and flips through the pages again. She examines them for a couple of minutes, flipping back and forth as though she’s looking for something specific. Finally, she reaches out into space and grabs at the air. She grasps with her fingers, appearing to take something from several invisible slots and adding them to her pile. I assume she’s compiling the orders she said she was going after, probably getting them from the tower of black cubbies I’ve seen stacked on one corner of her desk, the kind that keep stacks of papers organized.
She has no idea that she’s in our kitchen or that I’m standing behind her. She’s present in a world that only she can see and hear and touch.
A lump forms in my throat. It feels roughly the size of my first car, an old Buick that had a rusted fender and mismatched tires. I swallow several times, but it doesn’t lessen the ball of grief lodged there. It’s painful to watch, seeing my wife in such a weakened, fragile state, but watch her I will.
I won’t leave her. Not now. Not ever.
So I lean against the wall in the kitchen and keep an eye on my Lena as she fills out papers that only exist in her imagination. She works diligently on them for five or six minutes, writing with a pen only she can feel, before she picks up a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and holds it to her ear as if it were a phone.
“I need you to put in orders for the patient in room six. Ultrasound of the liver, a liver function panel, and I’d like a repeat CBC done as well. I think it might be a good idea to get a PT/INR, too. As soon as possible, please. Thank you.”