May 20, 2012

My dearest,

The nurse comes in, all smiles. She’s carrying a folded hospital robe.

“Do you know how to wear one?” she asks.

“Uhm, yes?” you say.

“Just remove all your clothes, put this on and tie up the strings at the back.”

“All my clothes? Even my underwear?”

“All your clothes. Even your underwear.”

And with a grin, she leaves the ward room.

You sigh deeply while I try not to chuckle too loudly. You change into the hospital gown and I help you with the strings at the back. The nurse returns soon enough, this time to take your blood pressure. You climb onto the bed, careful to pull as much of the gown as you can underneath you so that nothing shows. I want to say there’s probably nothing the nurse hasn’t seen before but I bite my tongue.

She wraps the blood pressure thingamajic around your arm and checks: “Wah, how come so high one?”

You look worried but I quickly quip, “Nurse so pretty, of course, heart also beats faster lah!”

I get a nasty look from you but the nurse gives me a big smile. I love flirting with nurses. (My dad does too, and so did my late grandfather. It’s genetic, I tell you.)

“Okay, his pressure is normal now. All okay!”

And with that the nurse leaves the room again. “She has the sweetest smile, doesn’t she?” I say.

“But,” I continue, “not as sweet and big as the smile I’m gonna give you when you come out of surgery. You’re gonna do so good, you are.”

And you are.

Yours, ever and always.