we　signed　the　papers；　I　watched　her　change　into　a　faded　cotton　gown　and　two　pairs　of　socks；　as　if　the　worst　injury　that　day　would　be　the　chill　of　the　operating　room。

She　cried　in　my　arms　and　said　she　didn’t　want　the　surgery。　I　held　her　hand　as　an　I。　V。　was　inserted　into　her　arm。　In　a　few　seconds　her　tears　stopped　and　she　closed　those　eyes　that　had　always　seemed　so　clever　and　clear；　but　now　looked　so　fearful。

Feeling　frantic　and　disconnected　I　kissed　her；　and　then　she　was　wheeled　away　through　the　unforgiving　doors　of　the　operating　suite。　I　spent　the　day　in　the　waiting　room　polishing　a　manuscript　whose　only　significance　was　its　power　to　distract。

When　she　returned　to　her　room　late　that　afternoon；　on　her　chest　was　an　expanse　of　billowing　white　bandage　placed　by　a　surgeon’s　hands　with　a　precision　and　delicacy　she　would　have　admired。　I　was　reminded　of　the　coverlet　she　had　appliqued　for　our　children’s　cradle　when　they　were　infants。　The　bandage　looked　gentle　and　protective…reassuring　and　not　as　harsh　as　I　had　expected。

Sitting　beside　her　in　a　dimly　lit　room　that　smelled　sharply　of　disinfectant；　I　realized　that　because　my　life　was　so　intertwined　with　hers；　I；　too；　was　a　patient。　I　felt　depleted　and　wrecked　as　I　stared　blankly　out　the　window　at　pink…gray　clouds　slowly　traversing　the　afternoon　sky。

It　was　almost　7　p。　m。　before　she　stirred。　I　heard　her　moan；　and　moved　to　the　edge　of　the　bed。　I　lightly　touched　her　lips　with　an　ice　chip　from　the　pitcher