The Heart of the Matter

She adjusts herself in the stiff chair, trying to get comfortable. It seems each time she shifts, it’s not long before she needs to squirm around again, looking for that sweet spot. But then she reminds herself she’s in a hospital, watching her husband sleep soundly after his surgery. It’s not about her comfort. It’s about his.

A baseball game is playing on the TV, the volume so low she can only hear a steady buzzing from the small bedside speaker. Her fingers ache to gingerly grab the remote from beside her husband and turn on her favorite show, which is starting soon on another channel. She looks over at him sleeping soundly, momentarily numb to the pain and worry, and feels guilt overtake her. 

She remembers clearly when he was sitting in the visitor chair as she prepared to give birth to their first child. He had picked up the remote and she snapped at him, “I’m the one in labor. You do not get to pick what we watch on TV”. Looking back, that may have been a bit harsh, but for heaven’s sake, she was not going to watch sports or one of his National Geographic specials while she labored to bring a child into the world.

But now, 28 years later, as her husband sleeps off the anesthesia from his open-heart surgery, she wants to stick with the pact they made all those years ago. She turns away from the baseball game, trying not to focus on what she is missing just three channels away. When he wakes up, even though he may be groggy, he should not find her with her feet up indulging in trashy reality TV.

A cart comes rattling down the hall, a beeping gets louder and then fades as it passes. She looks over at her husband. He doesn’t move. The drugs and the trauma to his body keep him in a sound sleep. He snores gently, and she thinks of all the times she kicked him in bed because his snoring kept her awake. Right now, she is just grateful that he is okay, that the surgery was a success. Her only hope is that he’ll be coming home to snore and leave the seat up and put unrinsed dishes into the dishwasher for many years to come.

He’s a good man, solid and dependable, even if he works too many hours and takes on too many stresses in life. That’s probably what led him here, although she knows it’s not that simple. But the long hours and the take-out pizza and burgers he always orders for his staff when he needs them to work late could not have helped. She would much prefer he came home for more of the healthy dinners she cooked. All that pricey organic and farm fresh food, but she was the only one benefitting.

What she loves is that despite the many hours he works, he has never passed  judgement as she went through a revolving door of jobs and volunteer positions, one year working at a horse farm and the next throwing herself into writing classes. He supports whatever she is passionate about in the moment in that quiet, unassuming way he handled everything.

Back when they were engaged, he had told her that he would have to work long hours in his career and that would probably leave her with much of the responsibility for their home life. But he also assured her that he would earn enough money to support their family, so she was free to do what she wanted, whether that was a career or to focus on motherhood. She had managed a mixture of both, keeping herself busy and challenged. She knew that even now, if she told him she wanted to go back to school to study marine biology or architecture or become a school librarian, he would look at her in that easy way he did and say, “if that’s what you want, go for it.”

Her phone beeps, and after checking to make sure the noise hasn’t disturbed him, she looks down at it and smiles. Her daughter responded to the update she’d send on their dad’s progress, and moments later, her son weighs in as well. Tears well in her eyes. She is so protective of these two young adults. As much as she hates that her husband had to endure this surgery, she also regrets that her children have to confront the reality that their parents are beginning to age. She wants to protect them from that, from all the disappointments and sadness that are part of life, but she knows that’s impossible. She also knows that at 26 and 28, they are strong and competent adults who are capable of dealing with whatever comes their way. They no longer need her protection – just her unconditional love. And they have had that since the moment they came into the world in this very hospital she sits in now. 

She tries to think of something to lighten the mood for her kids. She texts back, joking that their dad will probably want to put on his suit and go back to work as soon as he wakes up. Both kids like that, and she feels confident that she has eased their worry just a bit. Now they can go back to their work and their friends and their independent lives. She will keep them posted on his progress, and over the weekend they will come to visit. Seeing them recharges her like nothing else, and she can’t wait to give them each a big hug after all their family has been through this week.

She wiggles in her chair, which seems to be turning to cement beneath her. Hadn’t it been comfortable when she first got here and sat down? Can chairs literally harden beneath you? She eyes the baseball game again. He really isn’t going to be watching, but she decides to play a game on her phone until he wakes up. The doctor said it should be soon, and she is trying not to worry as the minutes pass. Sleep is healing – even if watching and waiting feels interminable.

Searching her phone, she finds a crossword puzzle she hasn’t yet completed. That will  kill at least 30 minutes – maybe more. She absorbs herself in the clues, the filling in of squares. For a moment she forgets about the discomfort of the chair, the concern about her husband’s recovery, and the ongoing worry about her kids. It is a gift, these occasional moments of distraction from worry. When she can keep her mind occupied.

She jumps when she hears a loud snore – or something resembling one. Putting down her phone she jumps up, leaning into her husband. He shifts in his bed and then scrunches up his face before slowly opening his eyes. 

“You’re awake!”  She states the obvious, her voice high.

He looks at her, not really focusing.

“Do you feel okay? Are you in any pain?”

He assesses her questions, taking his time to roll them over in his mind. Her husband always thinks for a long time before he responds. She is the opposite. She can’t wait to say the next thing that pops into her head. His hesitancy – normally frustrating – feels  comforting today. It’s something she will never be critical of again. 

He opens his mouth to speak, still considering his words. “Yes,” he says. “I don’t feel too bad.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. Of course he’s okay. He’s the one with the tough exterior, the impenetrable fortress that quietly protects his family from harm. She is the soft and  gooey center, nurturing and overloading her family with food and love and guidance.

“That’s so good to hear.” Her voice cracks. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says, his voice hoarse from sleep and drugs and exhaustion. “Maybe I could take another nap.”

“Good idea,” she says. “Do you need anything first? A sip of water or another pillow or…?” She stops herself. This isn’t the time to hover. 

He once again considers her words. “No, just sleep.” And with that he closes his eyes and appears to fall back into a deep sleep.

She sits back down in the chair, twisting and turning until she finds a position she can live with – at least for a few minutes. She stares at the baseball game and then back to her sleeping husband, thinking of the life they have built, their two wonderful children and their comfortable home. And just for a moment her mind calms down and she feels an intense gratitude for all that really matters in her life.