At night, Ed is hot, chilled, flushed – in other words, he’s fighting something or other and believe me, it is very odd to see him this way as neither he nor I are especially prone to viruses, infections, fevers and the like. I cannot remember the last time either of us burned like crazy from within.
In the morning, I eat breakfast and listen to his words of denial (Do you feel sick? No!)
That is his approach to most anything that stands to weaken him. And so I leave him smothered in a quilt (on this lovely and sunny day) and go to yoga where I attempt to shake off the feeling of anxiety that always comes when someone I care about is not well.
The ride on Rosie is delightful, the sun is dazzling, the fields are in that stage of golden brown that you come to accept at this time of the year, just as you accept the fact that you’re never going to bend and twist and balance as perfectly as all the young nymphs around you. And you accept that sometimes, people get sick.
At home, Ed tries once or twice to get up from underneath the quilt (I’m going to pick tomatoes!), each time retreating to another long spell of slumber.
A friend with a great deal of medical wisdom comes and looks him over and nudges him to shed his reluctance to be cared for, but he’ll have none of that.
She leaves. I sit, watch, listen. The farmhouse is suddenly not the focal point of all weekend activity. I water a few flowers, but without enthusiasm. There are projects -- some half started, some yet to be initiated, but suddenly this isn't the time for them.
I reheat soup and mostly eat alone. I’m hoping the medicine called “denial” works wonders and that this whole period of heat and shallow breathing comes to an end just as fast as it came upon us.