May 21, 2012

My dearest,

The anaesthesiologist tells me that the operation was a success. You are resting now at the recovery bay, she says. They’ll wheel you back to the ward in another half an hour or so. I nod, thanking her.

I wait in your room, sending text messages to friends who are waiting for news. Lots of natural sunlight from the wall-length windows. You’d love this, I think, for taking photographs with. And then the door opens.

The nurses wheel you in. You have a a surgical cap on and a wide piece of gauze covering your nostrils. I want to tell you how you sort of resemble Dr. Hannibal Lecter from The Silence of the Lambs but I know you are still pretty much out of it. You’ll be groggy for the rest of the day, napping on and off.

We help you get off the stretcher and onto the bed. The nurse, a different one from the morning, takes your blood pressure. I notice your lips are slightly cracked from breathing through your mouth during the surgery and ask if you could have some water. The nurse tells me not yet, not for a few hours. You are still under observation.

I caress your hand as you tell me about what you can remember. The cold room. The delay. Going to the toilet to pee right before the operation. How your arm hurts from where they inserted the syringe for the anaesthesia. The cold room again when you woke up. I tell you to sleep. Rest. You can have some water to drink when you wake. I’ll ask.

You nod and soon you are snoring gently. I settle down into my chair next to your bed. I think, you look so beautiful. You let out a tiny fart. I smile. You are still sleeping.

You my angel.

Yours, ever and always.