Our 52nd wedding anniversary.
Paul was three weeks into his first eight week hospital
stay. In a hospital two hours from home.
We would celebrate our anniversary in that hospital room. But we would celebrate. I packed
our favorite breakfast—sausage biscuits and home canned tomato
juice. (the commercial juice is too thick, too salty and too sweet). In the bag I put two small bottles of red
wine. We had asked permission, which was not given. But which was not
explicitly forbidden. The wine would accompany a meal ordered from the hospital
food service.
The usual SCRABBLE game went well, as did the morning
sausage breakfast. Now it was time to
consider the anniversary meal. After
scouring the menu we planned celebratory meal, put in our order and set
off for morning exercise—walks up and down the hall, walks into the
connecting corridor between wings.
Sitting in rocking chairs before a window allowing access to
the sun’s rays we sat. Silently. Fifty some years does not need a lot of
words—a look, a touch, a sigh tells it all.
A CNA burst through the double doors. “Here you are. You
need to get back to your room now.”
“Why?” Paul asked.
“They didn’t tell me. They just said bring you back.”
Paul stood. His left hand took mine, his right took the
mobile ‘tube holding’ apparatus.
We arrived at his room to find no one there. The CNA assured us someone be right there.
We waited.
We waited.
The door opened. A
young black man pushed a large wagon into the room. Several people followed. The cover of the
table was removed with the chorus of voices saying “HAPPY ANNIVERSARY”. A sumptuous meal of roast chicken, steamed
asparagus, rice, fruit salad, sparkling
apple juice (There was to be no wine) a decorated cake and a vase with roses.
We gasped; I
cried. After they left we even opened
our smuggled in wine. It was a lovely
night.
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