I’m laying
in the bed with a beacon of light shining down causing my morning vision
to squint. My body feels broken as if I've fallen from a three story
building. My eyes scan my surroundings and I’m seeing a beautiful
painting I've done four years ago hanging across my bed, and a dozen of
plush roses sitting on the dresser. My heart begins to smile.
I moved my eyes
over some more, and notices a young lady feeling my wrist. Her cold
fingers are feeling through my bulgy veins. “How are we doing”
She says as looks to her watch. I’m replying with the usual pleasantries,
but I guess she can’t hear me. It’s been that way for months. She
speaks and I answer, and yet she never responds. Then she asks if I’m
ready to start our routine? I haven’t had the slightest clue as to what
she means. But again, I politely answer and still no response.
While the woman
goes to a nearby bathroom, a man walks into the room carrying a tray of
food. I think it’s my breakfast. With skin of light onyx and
small patches of graying hair, he sits the tray on a table and approaches my
bedside. He gently grabs my hand and lifts it to his mouth. He
kisses it ever so softly, almost as though as he’s afraid to hurt me. As
my hand remain nestle to his chin, I’m beginning to remember who this man
is—my husband of sixteen years.
“Are we ready,
Mrs. Davis” the woman suddenly asks. Unfortunately, I can’t turn to see
the woman’s face, just only her flora-scented perfume commands her
presence.
My husband looks
to the woman, and then looks to me and gives me one of the serene most
smiles. He carefully places my hand back on the bed. “Is there any
way you could continue her physical therapy on Thursday” He questions her, “I
don’t think she’s up to it”.
The woman finally
comes closer to my sight and stands on the side of the bed. She looks down to
me with a nod. “Of course, Mr. Davis” She smiles and continue, “Mrs.
Davis, I’ll see you next time, okay?”
This time I didn't bother to answer since she never responds. Instead, I blink my eye, and
what do you know? She answers. “Good job! You remember our
exercise” she cheerfully answers as if I’m a five year old reciting my ABC’s.
The woman
finally ends her session and leaves. Now it's just me and my husband
alone. “Baby, are ready to eat” He asks. To make sure he answers, I
blink again. “Good. I cooked your favorite: veggie omelet with veggie sausage,
wheat toast, kiwis, and green tea".
I’m happily
wondering to myself, this is definitely my husband. This man knows
me inside and out. Despite everything that has happened in the last eight
months, he’s been there through the thickest of the thick of it.
Now, I remember
why I wake helpless within the morning beacon, or why when I speak no one
answers, or why that woman comes every Tuesdays and Thursdays, or why I feel
I’m detach from my body, it’s because I nearly died from a massive stroke at
thirty-eight years old.
And for the months
I spent in the hospital, I saw my husband day in and day out. He never
left my side. I guess owning a major record label, he could do
that.
Though at that
time, I wanted to hate every living soul for being able to use their limbs, to
eat without assistance, and to do simple tasks like freely go to the bathroom
without reverting to infant stages of wearing adult diapers. Yet my
husband, knowing I couldn't express myself, saw into my quiet anger. I
vividly recalled how he caressed the top of my forehead, following by his
endearing kiss. “You can fight it” He said, “But I won’t go anywhere.
We’re one.” Then as he leaned over me, his tear fell from the crescent of
his eye onto my cheek. The warmness of it made my anger melted to an
ocean of serenity.
This man has a
heart like gold. Just to think before my stroke, I wanted to divorce
him. The night when my life changed forever, I was in his den. We argued,
but he pleaded for me not to leave. Then I had said something that left a
lasting memory before everything turned black. I told him I didn't love
him anymore. The pain he conveyed glazed into tears, leaving a lasting
image in my mind. Then my light suddenly had turned into darkness. The
next thing I knew he was standing over my bed in the Intensive Care
Unit.
I woke to his
smile and he whispered close my ear, “I’m sorry baby, I was wrong. But please
fight this”.
As my husband sits
at my bedside at this moment, continuing to feed me, I realize if anyone whose
wrong is me. I went into our marriage for the intention of furthering my
career as this famous singer. It’s not that I didn’t love him; I just
didn’t love him the way he deserves.
What he does for
me now, it’s abundantly clear how much he loves me. He combs my long and
curly hair with gentlest of touch, carries me to my wheelchair to take me
outside to my favorite place—my garden, and gives me a bath with my favorite
scented oils. Most of all, he does something most men wouldn’t do, he
changes my adult diapers. Even though it’s embarrassing each time he does
it, my husband always repeats our marriage vows as a tear streams my face—for
better for worse, for sickness and health.
While I’m looking
into this man’s deep dark eyes, I understand what unconditional love really
means. He looks beyond the tawdriness of appearance. I haven’t had a
manicure in eight months, weaveless, and I know I have a straggly hair or two
on my chin. I’m a hot mess. Yet still, every morning he
tells me how beautiful I am.
“Okay baby, last
bite. You've been eating pretty well this morning” he says.
He catches my eye
gazing to him and he stops. I’m not feeling ill or anything; I just want
to admire how the morning sun dances against his dark skin. Standing
within the light, he looks as if he’s my angel that's given me new life.
My erroneous acts of selfishness and greed may have led me into the confines of
indefinite paralysis, but it has wakened me to reality. I don’t need
success to make me happy; it was there all of this time.
“Baby, are you
alright” he asks with a concern in his voice.
My mouth opens as
I’m forcing my face muscles to go along me. The words from my heart have
begun to flow to the tip of my tongue. I’m forcing the word, I, and
then next the word, love. I can see the growing astonishment on my husband’s
face. I’m not sure if he understands me, so I’m taken another deep
breath, and it pour from my lips—I love you.
I think he
understands me because he nearly drops the tray of food, and then quickly puts
it down. His average-sized frame climbs next to me in the bed and weeps.
Feeling a loving reassurance inside of his arms, my tear joins his. I’m
repeating it over again, “I love you”.
It’s amazing at
times how you can quickly get put into your place from unexpected
circumstances. My body literally has to stand still to see what’s in front of
me all of this time. Money and power may be significant to some, but it's
mundane when your world stops turning. It’s meaningless.
No one can explain
why the worse of worse people gets brakes. I consider myself in that
category. Now I have this opportunity to be a better woman. Second
chances don’t come often, and I have mine. So I better not mess up
this one up.
© Imani Wisdom, 2011
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