Then came my surgery.
It was for a complicated hernia.
Nothing life-threatening, but serious enough that I would need a lengthy hospital stay and several weeks of limited activity afterward.
David was there when they took me in.
He was there when I woke up.
The expression on his face when he realized I was conscious and talking told me he had been far more frightened than he had admitted.
He stayed several hours that first day.
Then he went home.
He returned Saturday.
Then Tuesday.
At least, those were the days I remembered him visiting.
So when one of the nurses came into my room on Thursday, noticed the yellow flowers beside my bed, and smiled, I didn’t think much of it.
“You have such a devoted husband,” she said.
I smiled.
“He’s a good man.”
“He certainly is. He’s here every day.”
I looked at her.
“Every day?”
She nodded casually.
“Tall gentleman? Gray hair? Usually wearing a blue jacket?”
My smile disappeared.
That description fit David perfectly.
Tall.
Gray hair.
Navy jacket.
But he had not visited me every day.
Or at least, he had not visited me.
I considered correcting her.
Then something stopped me.
Instead, I said nothing.
After she left, I stared at the yellow flowers for a long time.
That afternoon, I called David.
We spoke normally.
He told me he would come see me again in three days.
I didn’t mention what the nurse had said.
Thirty-one years of marriage had taught me that sometimes it was better to understand what you were dealing with before confronting it.
Maybe the nurse was confused.
