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we signed the papers； I watched her change into a faded cotton gown and two pairs of socks； as if the worst injury that day would be the chill of the operating room。
She cried in my arms and said she didn’t want the surgery。 I held her hand as an I。 V。 was inserted into her arm。 In a few seconds her tears stopped and she closed those eyes that had always seemed so clever and clear； but now looked so fearful。
Feeling frantic and disconnected I kissed her； and then she was wheeled away through the unforgiving doors of the operating suite。 I spent the day in the waiting room polishing a manuscript whose only significance was its power to distract。
When she returned to her room late that afternoon； on her chest was an expanse of billowing white bandage placed by a surgeon’s hands with a precision and delicacy she would have admired。 I was reminded of the coverlet she had appliqued for our children’s cradle when they were infants。 The bandage looked gentle and protective…reassuring and not as harsh as I had expected。
Sitting beside her in a dimly lit room that smelled sharply of disinfectant； I realized that because my life was so intertwined with hers； I； too； was a patient。 I felt depleted and wrecked as I stared blankly out the window at pink…gray clouds slowly traversing the afternoon sky。
It was almost 7 p。 m。 before she stirred。 I heard her moan； and moved to the edge of the bed。 I lightly touched her lips with an ice chip from the pitcher
