WHY I'M WILLING TO RISK BEING BLOWN UP BY A SPACE HEATER

I'm sitting in the darkness, listening to the gentle buzz of medical equipment.  Duncan is asleep in the glow of monitors, and I'm relieved.  His surgery went well.  

He's been in the OR before, but this time was different.  He's older.  I'm older.  And life just seems a whole lot more fragile.  And precious.  

As I sat, quietly, waiting for news from the surgeon that everything went well, I thought of the opening scene in the movie, "Love Actually."  People are running toward each other, blissfully.  Hugh Grant says, "Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow."

It occurred to me that my situation was the exact opposite.  I thought to myself, "Hey, Hugh, next time you want to feel even gloomier, hop on over to the nearest surgical waiting room.  That will do it (unless you're headed to the maternity ward, in which case I'll read about in People magazine)."

Now it's two days later, and Duncan is home.  Things have settled down, but there's a huge, red "Oxygen In Use" sign taped to our front door, which makes me feel about 150 years old (it also scared the hell out of Duncan's mother when she came to visit).

There's not a lot I can do to make Duncan feel better.  Healing takes time, and sets its own schedule.  In the meantime, we sit, side-by-side, watching old movies, and savoring the occasional bowl of Cream of Rice.  The dogs are in Nirvana, snuggled on our laps.  Our world has gotten very small.  

I relish the time alone with my best friend, who occasionally falls into a medicated haze. The man I love more than life itself.  And will forever.  

This afternoon, we were hit by sub-arctic temperatures, so I went to the basement and retrieved the space heater that I bought almost 40 years ago when I was in law school.  As usual, when I plugged it in, all the lights in the room dimmed, and I held my breath.  Would this be the time it exploded in an electrical frenzy?  It was strangely comforting to know that the red-hot coils still smelled like industrial waste.  

Then it hit me: the space heater actually pre-dated Duncan.  It was the only thing in our house (other than a rusted teflon Bundt pan from my misplaced high school baking adventures) that had no "us" history.  Strangely, I wanted it to go away.  I felt it didn't belong.  But Duncan's toes were cuddled up against its post-apocalyptic glow, so it got a reprieve.  I just couldn't interrupt the toasty bliss.  

We've all built lives around those we love.  If we're lucky, we can be by their sides  when they need it most.  Especially post-surgical.  When there isn't a lot we can do, but we can help make ordinary recovery moments extraordinary.

So here we are, Duncan and I, sitting by a code-defying heater, with wild electrical abandon and heavily-medicated deliberate joy.