Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [90]
Sunday afternoon, I called the doctor and told him that we were staying in Charleston—she was in no shape to start up again Monday morning. She needed a few days. He agreed. Sunday evening, I propped her up, laid some saltine crackers on the table along with some Gatorade and aimed the bed so she could look out over the harbor.
Despite the nausea medication—which cost $500 for seven pills—she couldn’t eat or drink anything. I tried to monitor how close she was to becoming dehydrated by judging how many times she peed and the color. “Clear” and we were getting enough fluid. “Yellow” and we were getting close to trouble. Given the chemo routine, her doctor had inserted a PIC line into her chest. It was a direct dump line that allowed the medicine to flow through a clear tube and go directly through her heart and out into her bloodstream. This also helped keep her hydrated. I became the hydration king. I could swap, flush and hang a fluids bag quicker than most nurses. Without it, I’m not sure what we’d have done. So I swapped her bag and hung it on this stainless-steel pipe on wheels that Abbie had affectionately started calling Georgie. He was her six-foot, slender, quiet-type boyfriend that she kept on the side. With her “drinking,” I took a whiff of myself. Given my maid duties, I desperately needed a shower and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
I turned on the shower, undressed and stepped on the scale. A hundred and seventy pounds. Abbie wasn’t the only one losing weight. I’d lost twelve pounds. I stepped into the shower and let the hot water blast the backside of my neck. We have a propane hot water heater and a propane tank that holds a hundred and fifty gallons. That means I can take a hot shower for as long as I want.
After maybe thirty minutes, I cut off the water and stepped out. Abbie was sitting on the floor, Georgie stood next to her. I stood dripping.
The last six months had been a rodeo of monumental proportions. Abbie was either flat on her back trying to stop the earth from spinning or hanging over the toilet puking up her toes. During that time there had not been much time for us. Actually, no time. Nada. We’d tried once and the pain was so intense, we just stopped. So when I stepped out of the shower, it was rather obvious that I’d not been with my wife in quite some time. I’m not trying to draw attention to that—there’s nothing special about me. It is what it is. That’s where we were living.
It was probably the first time she’d seen me without my clothes in several weeks. She looked up, pulled the rag away from her mouth and looked through squinted eyes. “Maybe…maybe you could get a girlfriend for a little while.”
“What?”
She nodded. “It’s okay. You can’t go walking around like that.”
“What are you talking about?”
She pointed. “You could just…you know, get a girlfriend. I know you need…”
It was one of her lower points. I sat beside her, put my around her and pulled her to me without making her any more sick. “I have a girlfriend.”
She started to cry and shake her head. She pulled off her robe, and sat Indian style in front of me. She was bald—all over. She was pale, her skin had yellowed, the scars on her chest had healed but had begun to pull in, drawing the skin tight and further concaving her chest. She leaned her head against the wall, tapped herself in the chest and managed, “How can you love this?”
“Honey, I didn’t marry you for your boobs. Don’t get me wrong, I miss them and once we beat this thing, maybe we can get them back, but…I already told you. I didn’t marry the woman on the magazine cover.”
She spoke between the sobs. “But why do you do what you do? Why? You have no life.”
I held her hand in mine, turning her ring in circles around her bony finger.
I’m no expert on women and their feelings but I think they