“He’s off his rocker with morphine,” his stepson says.
“That’s Eliot, ‘The Waste Land,’” I tell him.
I go in. John smiles, a glimmer of the old dog. I climb in bed with him, smelling the sanitized rot, feeling the sheath of muscle and inside the churning, an ocean of organs melted by chemo. He went to the Olympics, this man.
“It’s 60 degrees below zero on the River Styx. I can’t see around the corner, but I’m curious.” He pumps the morphine into his arm.
And now I’m really crying.
“I love you,” he says, holding me, protecting me still.
Wonderful story so well written. I was there. x
Thank you, Mary.
Absolutely transportative – Bless you!
Thanks Hamza, I am humbled and given strength.
Great images. Very powerful.
Thank you, Ed for taking the time to comment. It really makes a difference and is very supportive. Susan
You capture the emotions beautifully. Well done.