“I really hate this,” you say as you change my dressing. You don’t do it softly, and you’re not careful. You’re punishing me.
I wince. “It doesn’t look like you hate it.”
“I do, Jude,” you tell me, pausing what you’re doing, which is the worst thing you could do, because the longer it takes, the more it hurts. “I really, really do—hate it.”
After you’re finished cleaning me up, you bring me my lunch. It’s one of those microwave meals, and it’s terrible. I eat it anyway, because I need my strength. That, and I won’t let you win. I have to heal; I have to get out of here. It’s cold and that helps with motivation. I ask for another blanket but it never comes. “Now, you know what I meant before,” you say, and even though neither of us brings up before, we both know what you mean by it.
bef
